I could have wished that my appetite had disappeared with the events of the last twelve hours, but instead I was ravenously hungry. I went back for seconds and was sitting there, my legs propped up on a nearby chair, enjoying a second cup of coffee and an almond croissant, when Azazel walked in.
I looked at him, trying not to picture him naked, the look on his face as I clutched his shoulders and rode him. … “There’s food,” I said unnecessarily.
“I already ate.”
Of course he did, I thought, unreasonably miffed. At this point there was probably nothing he could do that wouldn’t have annoyed me. It was late afternoon, and the sky outside was darkening. It looked like a storm was coming in.
“What prophecy?” I hadn’t meant to ask him, hadn’t meant to say anything that would require a response from him. He would do as he always did, ignore my questions, give me one-syllable answers. “Never mind,” I said hastily. “I don’t know why I bother.”
He came over, took the chair my feet were propped on, and pulled it out from under me, sitting down next to me. “The prophecy is from one of the ancient scrolls found at Qumran. Better known as the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
I was more shocked that he appeared to be giving me an answer than at the answer itself. “Those are fairy tales and mythology, nothing more. Written by crazy, deluded old men.”
“You would be surprised,” he said. “Half of it is nonsense. The rest is far too close to the truth.”
“So there’s a fifty percent chance this prophecy is true. What is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. It happens to be part of the fifty percent that isn’t true.”
“Then why does it matter so much to you?”
His mouth thinned. I remembered the feel of his lips against mine, and I wanted to close my eyes and cross the small distance that separated us. I stayed where I was.
“The prophecy states that the Lilith will eventually marry Asmodeus, king of the demons, and they will reign in hell.”
Okay, I thought, reaching for my coffee. It was already cold, but I needed to stall for time. I swallowed, then looked at him. “Absurd,” I agreed. “Considering I’m not the mythical demon you think I am, it has nothing to do with me. But even if it were true, why is that a problem for you? You think I belong in hell anyway. Might as well rule it.”
“Hell doesn’t exist. I already told you that.”
“Do you think I take your word as gospel?”
“In fact, I never lie. I am incapable of it.”
“Is that part of the so-called angel thing?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re an angel.” I still found that as absurd as the thought that I was a demon. “So why do you care about the prophecy? Why do you care who I marry?” It was a ridiculous, hopeful thought, but I couldn’t imagine what else was troubling about the prophecy.
“Of course I don’t care whom you marry. As long as it isn’t me. I am called many names in the scrolls and scriptures. Azazel, Astaroth, Azael … and Asmodeus.”
For a moment I couldn’t move. And then I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not marrying you.”
“No. I intend to make sure of it.”
Why did that feel so painful? I certainly didn’t want to marry him. I had no idea what marriage to an angel might entail, but I imagined it wasn’t pleasant. And there was no way in hell I was going to give him that much power over me. He had too much already.
I still wanted to fight back, to make him feel the pain I was feeling, the illogical, irrational pain, and I had one weapon. “Who is Sarah?”
I might have imagined that he flinched, the movement was so quick. But he didn’t avoid my gaze. “My wife,” he said. “She died seven years ago. And I will not replace her with you.” Watching me. Always watching me out of those fierce blue eyes in the drab, empty surroundings.
I wanted to hate her. I wanted anger to fill me at the thought of the woman he loved, loved enough to spend seven years without sex, loved enough that he’d offered me up to monsters rather than risk having to marry me and contaminate her memory.
But I could find no rage. In truth, I could almost feel her between us, a gentle presence in the room. Oh, most definitely between us, and she always would be.
But he would be gone, and I would be dead, and why should it matter? Yet it did.
“What if I promise not to marry you? I think I can manage to survive such a crushing blow to my heart.” I was trying to sound cynical, but there was just a trace of vulnerability in my voice, and I wished I’d just shut the fuck up. I twisted my mouth into a semblance of a smile. “Let’s just be friends with benefits.”
“We are not friends and we never will be.”
Damn, we were back to the terse dialogue. “Then what are we? And don’t say mortal enemies—we’re past that and you may as well admit it. What are we?”
“Reluctant allies. I have decided I do not want the Truth Breakers to get their hands on you.”
“Then why did you bring me here in the first place?” It was a reasonable question, and I expected an answer.
“To find the truth at any cost. I changed my mind.”
“Why? Because we fucked?” I used the crude word deliberately. Sex without love was fucking. “Suddenly you care about me?”
“No. Because suddenly I despise Beloch.”
I’d wanted answers—it wasn’t his fault if I didn’t like them. Then again, I wasn’t sure if I believed him. There had been a strong undercurrent of animosity between the two of them when he’d first brought me down to Beloch’s deceptively cozy apartment. This was nothing new.
“So what are we going to do about it?” I asked in my most practical voice.
“I have yet to decide.” He rose abruptly, glancing around the room, and I suddenly remembered the cameras. Were they throughout the house? “I’m going for a walk,” he said in that take-no-prisoners tone.
I didn’t like feeling like a prisoner. “Can I go with you?”
“No,” he said flatly. “You’ve already seen what can happen when you wander around alone.”
“But I’d have you to protect me,” I argued.
He looked at me long and hard. “If I were you, I wouldn’t count on it.”
THE COOL AFTERNOON AIR WAS heavy with an approaching storm as Azazel strode toward the old restaurant and made his way into the warren of rooms beneath it. Beloch had been his enemy for as long as he could remember. He was far more powerful than he should have been. While Azazel knew that the Dark City had existed as long as the Fallen had, possibly longer, the details were unclear. The memory of his own incarceration here was impossibly vague—he could recall the pain and the despair and his determination to survive, and not much more.
He refused to ask his enemies for favors—particularly when they were like Beloch, delighting in power and torture. Yet here he stood in Beloch’s lair, the supplicant. If he wanted to bring her safely out of here, he would need Beloch’s agreement.
“Please,” he said, and the word cost him.
Beloch looked at him and laughed. “Have you fallen in love, Azazel?” he cooed from his chair by the fire, his gnarled fingers stroking the angry cat. “How darling! I thought you were determined not to fall prey to the Lilith. In fact, earlier you insisted that you had managed to bed her without emotion. Clearly you were lying, either to me or to yourself.”
Azazel stared back, keeping his face cool and blank. “Falling in love is for weak-minded humans,” he said. “Besides, the Lilith has no memory of her seductive powers—she’s as awkward as a schoolgirl.”
“I gather schoolgirls can be quite delightful,” Beloch murmured. “Though I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. The lure of the flesh disgusts me. But here’s the question that really interests me. Did you drink from her, blood-eater?”
“No. You know the curse as well as I do. She isn’t my mate, and we only feed from our mates. I felt no desire for her blood at all.” He wondered if that was the truth. He could smell her blood pulsing beneath her skin, and his fangs had begun to lengthen reflexively. He’d fought it. It was profane enough that he’d fucked her. To drink her blood in the sacrament reserved for bonded mates would be the greatest travesty.