Her lips were at his throat, and she nuzzled him there. “Why didn’t you bite me?” she whispered.
He hesitated before giving her the truthful answer. “It doesn’t have to be every time. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to—”
She was stronger than he expected. She rolled over, and he was once more on top of her, cradled in her thighs. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, brushing a kiss across his mouth, reading his hunger, and he knew that it matched her own. She arched her neck, pushing his face down, and his fangs were already extended for the bite when he touched skin, the taste of her blood incredibly sweet on his tongue.
He had to be careful. She’d lost blood today; and while he’d taken the bare minimum last night, she was still operating on less than usual. He pulled away, licking at the twin wounds, closing them, and sank down beside her, holding her in his arms, totally spent. If Uriel won, if all their efforts came to nothing, he would at least fade from existence knowing that the end of his life had been the very best part of it. And holding her close against him, he slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TWO DAYS LATER, AZAZEL TOOK one last, reluctant glance at the woman lying curled up in bed. The time had come. If he’d been able to, he would have put the Grace of sleep on her, so that she didn’t have to experience the next twenty-four hours. Either they would survive or they wouldn’t, and he would have spared her if he could. But once mated, he had no power over her, no ability to control her, and no Grace to give her.
Preparations were already being made. They were making ready for battle. Michael, ever the warrior, was all ruthless efficiency as he marshaled his forces. The Fallen and their wives were arming; the house was buttoned up tight. There was no hint as to how the assault would come, but come it would. Today. While Sheol had no sages or oracles, enough of the inhabitants were given a sense of presentiment. Even he had enough of the gift to have sensed their enemies’ approach, pulling himself from Rachel’s arms to prepare for battle.
“Do we know how it will begin?” he asked Michael as he watched him strap on his leather armor. Azazel was one of the strongest fighters among them, fierce, unblinking, with a power that went far beyond normal limits. But he knew he was the second-best, making up in speed and cunning what he lacked in Michael’s finely honed strength.
Raziel was possessed of extraordinary skill with the sword, Tamlel with a spear. Gabriel’s wife was an archer of considerable ability, and Azazel had been assured that Allie was lethal with a dagger. Each and every one was gifted in self-defense. They would fight to the death; and rather than let Uriel torment her, Azazel would take Rachel in his arms and kill her himself before taking the death stroke. He would take that pain upon himself to spare her. If it came to that.
“Don’t look so gloomy,” Michael chided, in his usual high spirits when anticipating a fight. “We will prevail. We have right on our side.”
“And just how long have you been on this earth, that you think rightness has anything to do with victory?” Azazel said bitterly, reaching for his own leather armor. A sharp sword could slice through the thickness of the cured hides, but they had used it since the beginning of time. They would use it until the end of time, should it come to that.
But it wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to let Uriel win.
Michael must have read his thoughts. “That’s better. Where’s Rachel?”
“I’m trying to let her sleep.”
“Through an epic battle? Not likely. She’ll be angry that you tried to shield her.”
“She has many more reasons to be angry with me—she can add this to the tally,” Azazel said, buckling the straps around his torso, then picking up the leg coverings.
“She hasn’t forgiven you? She chose you—surely that means she’s chosen to absolve you as well.”
“Some things are too great to be forgiven,” he said, reaching for his sword.
Raziel appeared in the armory door. “They’re coming,” he said. “We need to assemble on the beach.”
Michael clapped a hand on Azazel’s shoulder. “We’ll prevail, brother. Have faith.” He headed out after Raziel, and Azazel slid his second, shorter sword into its sheath, preparing to follow. Only to come up short as Rachel appeared in the doorway, blocking it.
She’d plaited her wild red hair into a warrior’s braids and pinned them to her head. She’d managed to find a warrior’s uniform in the short period he’d been gone, and the expression on her face was fierce. “Were you just going to let me sleep through this?” she demanded.
“With luck, you never needed to know what was going on,” he said, keeping his face blank, his voice neutral.
“Because I don’t belong here, is that it? Everyone else is preparing for battle, ready to defend their home and their lives. And I’m supposed to just curl up in bed and wait for the outcome?” Her rough voice vibrated with rage.
“Yes.”
She gave him a steely glance. “Give me a weapon.”
“Are you thinking of gutting me?” he asked, curious. Curious as to whether he’d let her, as final penance.
“No. To help defend Sheol.”
“Go back to our rooms,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “You will only hurt our chances of winning.”
“Fuck you,” she said in her hoarse voice.
The enemy were almost here. He could feel their approach. They’d reached the gates of Sheol, and in moments they would smash them down, breaking the covenant, the laws ordained by the Supreme Being. The Fallen’s banishment and eternal damnation were written in stone, but so was their life. Eternal life, eternal damnation, and the unbreachable sanctuary of Sheol. And now Uriel was about to break that law.
“Go back to our rooms.”
“Why?”
He took a deep breath. “Because you make me vulnerable. If you’re there, I’ll be thinking about you, trying to protect you, instead of fighting the battle I need to fight. Rachel, I can’t fight Uriel and fight you too. Go back, for the love of God.”
“For the love of God,” she echoed. “God is the one who cursed us all. Is there any particular reason I should love him?”
He heard the gate come crashing down before the steady march of their enemy. “I can’t argue about faith right now,” he said in a quiet voice. “They’re here.”
“Then I’ll have your back,” she said.
The assaulting host were marching toward the beach, and the army of Sheol, the small, ill-equipped force of the damned, was waiting for them. He looked at Rachel with her fierce braids and fiercer expression, and a slow smile crossed his face. He pulled her into his arms, just ducking the dagger she’d grabbed, and kissed her, not with desperation but with pure joy. Whatever happened, she was his, and it was enough.
“We have to go,” he said when he released her. Taking her hand, he headed out to the sandy beach.
Raziel and Michael were in front of the others, a powerful force, and Rachel released his hand, going to stand with Allie. He had no choice, wasting only a moment to accept that he might never touch her again. And then he went to join the other two leaders.
It was an endless army, as far as the eye could see. No leather armor for them: their bright metal glinted in the filtered sunlight. He looked for Uriel in whatever form he’d chosen, but the archangel wasn’t leading his army of angels today.
At their head was Metatron, king of the angels, ferocious and unblinking and huge. With a definite grudge to bear.
He stood front and center, towering over his foot soldiers, but his sword wasn’t drawn. He wouldn’t call his troops into battle until he raised it, and he was making no effort to reach for it.