Avenger''s Angel: A Novel of the Lost Angels

  But his grip remained tight in her hair and, as he drew back and then drove forward again, all the way to the hilt, he lowered his mouth to the side of her neck. With his free hand, he parted her curls and pressed in on her clit, eliciting a low, mewling moan from deep in her throat.

  He pulled back—and shoved forward. And did it again. And again.

  Eleanore nearly let go of the railing at the sheer force with which he now plunged into her, but the innocent, captive part of her continued to heed his warning and hold tight. He had to smile at that, a dark, smug, male satisfaction fueling the strength in his veins. It wasn’t until he exposed his teeth and pricked them threateningly at the taut flesh of her neck, that she finally let go of the headboard and grabbed his thighs behind her. He grinned as her nails dug deep, drawing blood.

  “Mistake, Ellie,” he purred in her ear, almost chuckling the reprimand. He gave her no time to ponder his words before he raised his head, opened his mouth wide, and then sank his fangs deep into her neck.

  Again, Eleanore cried out, but this time, Uriel let the cry fill the room and the darkness beyond. If anyone heard, he would deal with it later.

  He held her there in his vampire embrace, his cock deep inside of her, his teeth buried in her throat, and he pulled slowly against her skin, swallowing with barely tamed inhuman hunger as her body gave up its blood for him.

  He drank sparingly, not wanting to drain her, and it was like holding a fire at bay with gasoline; it was nearly impossible to stop the heat from spreading and engulfing him.

  All of you, he thought distantly as he moved inside of her, back and forth, urging her on to her own forbidden ecstasy. Give me all of you. . . . She tasted like heaven, the way he would imagine ambrosia to taste—sweet and seductive and quenching. He brushed his fingers over her sensitive clit and then pressed, over and over again, teasing and taking, as he claimed her.

  Eleanore moaned and gasped and sighed, and he smiled against her pierced flesh as he felt her press unwittingly into him. She wanted more—so he gave it to her. With more force now, he propelled them on. A brief brush of her mind and he knew that she was in pain as well as pleasure. And he knew that she liked it that way.

  The animal in him reared its head again and he pulled more fiercely against her vein, drawing her blood into him with renewed vigor. At the same time, he took her down to the bed, shoving her forward beneath him as he kept both teeth and cock firmly lodged inside of her, maintaining his claim on her body.

  She hit the mattress and he released her hair, quickly grabbing her wrists and pinning them once more to the bed above her.

  He drew out, nearly all the way, only to drive into her with ruthless force, shoving his rock-hard need so deep that she cried out once more. He was pitiless, ramming her over and over again in this same brutal manner.

  He felt her climax building; then, as she tensed beneath him in a kind of shuddering and tightening that started in her stomach and worked its way down, until she was gripping his dick with unbelievable tightness.

  Lightning crashed outside the windows, bathing their carnal act in electric, blue-white light. Thunder followed quick on its heels, drowning out the sound of Uriel’s own guttural cry as he ripped his fangs from Eleanore’s throat, dug his fingers into her wrists, and exploded inside of her.

  Lightning split the sky a second time. And then a third. Hard, driving rain slanted onto the tin roof of the bed-and-breakfast, drenching the establishment in a strange, sudden downpour.

  The bed stopped rocking. The fire had burned down.

  And Uriel slowly—oh so slowly—lowered his lips to Eleanore’s neck, tenderly kissing the wounds he had placed there. She shivered and sighed.

  He drew his archess into his arms, rolling onto his side so that her back was pressed against his chest. She shuddered and, because he was still buried deep inside of her, he felt the aftershocks of her climax with blissful rapture. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, scenting their sex, her hair, the ash from the fire, and her blood.

  He could hear that her heart beat steady, strong, and calm. Her breathing had slowed into a gentle, sated rhythm. He absorbed all of this, taking in everything with careful attention. He was in heaven. No. It was better than heaven. He never wanted to move from that bed. His strong arms trapped Ellie’s slim body against him and he never, ever wanted to let her go. Not for anything.

  Thunder rolled in the distance. The rain poured on.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lilith peered out her window at the garden that was drained of color in the moonlight. She hadn’t been able to sleep. There was something in the air tonight making her restless; it was an unsettled vibration that she couldn’t quite place. She hadn’t slept a wink all night, and she found that she kept fidgeting.

  She turned away from the window, and with a simple thought, her nightgown transformed into a silk skirt, a silk blouse, and a pair of simple, low-heeled pumps. Then she left her rooms and headed down the hall toward Sam’s quarters.

  Halfway there, she paused in her tracks. Here, the vibration became worse, more erratic, more troubled. It felt now as if the very atmosphere had become apprehensive.

  Oh no, she thought, her mind doing circles around the implications. Samael was a very, very powerful creature, and when he got mad, it was a very powerful kind of fury.

  The corridor up ahead seemed darker than it should have, even at night. It was as if a pall had fallen over the area. Perhaps it was this, combined with the tension in the air, that had brought Lilith to a halt.

  She swallowed hard and reached out with her mind, frightened of what she would find when she brushed whatever it was that was lurking in the rooms beyond that dark stretch of hall ahead.

  She wasn’t disappointed. For the dense, heavy foreboding that stirred at the edges of her mental feelers was nothing if not evil. It was the very essence of wrongness. It was Samael at his worst.

  She wondered what had brought about this change. Only a few hours ago, he had been speaking with Jason in hushed but relaxed tones. He was carefully planning their arrangement for Christopher Daniels’s gala. And though Lilith had objected to their behavior enough that she’d stayed well away from their scheming, she had been grateful that he was at least calm and in control.

  Now, however, there was that dreadfully familiar feeling in the air that reminded her of unholy ultimatums and fallen angels.

  Oh, Samael, she thought ruefully. What have you done?

  With more courage than she would have thought she possessed, Lilith took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and made her way down the dark hall.

  Eleanore’s body felt heavy. It was as if every inch of it were weighted down, forcing it to press hard into the mattress beneath her. Gravity held her captive, draining her strength, and made it difficult for her to open her eyes. She normally didn’t feel this weak unless she had been using her powers. What was wrong with her?

  She forced her eyes to open anyway, blinking against a blurry grayness, and tried to get her bearings.

  She was naked, in a bed, in an unfamiliar room. There was a sliding glass door in front of her, and beyond that, there was fog. It was nothing but a wall of dense white.

  Where am I?

  She frowned and tried to move. She was instantly assailed by a deep soreness. It permeated each muscle, and between her legs, there was an ache that she had never before experienced. Her breath caught when she felt her very pulse down there, hot and swollen. And then Uriel shifted behind her, his arm nudging gently against her hip where it was draped heavily over her body.

  Memories began to rush at her, like floating photographs and cut scenes from a movie. Within a few still seconds, she remembered where she was.

  And what had happened the night before.

  Her neck and face flushed pink, her mind reeling at the memory of what had transpired. Oh my God, she thought, recalling Uriel’s fingers buried deep inside of her—and then other parts of him later on. She stifled a moan,
a shiver, and closed her eyes against the need that was already burgeoning within her once more.

  It wasn’t natural. It couldn’t be normal for her to want to be taken again. And that was what he’d done—taken her. She remembered the look in his vampire eyes—the feel of him smothering her with his pleasure, desire cascading over her until she felt she would die if he didn’t . . . if he didn’t . . . if he didn’t fuck her.

  Oh Christ, she thought, her insides writhing with the plethora of mixed emotions riding her. She remembered Uriel’s teeth in her neck, his hard heat so deep inside of her, and his thrusting that was anything but gentle. It had hurt.

  It had all been painful.

  Eleanore recalled her promise to Samael. It was a deal made in blood. If Uriel had hurt her, did she need to go to Samael now?

  No.

  She did not. Not this time. Because the pain had also been pleasure.

  The realization of why her night with Uriel did not necessitate her running to Samael for protection was nearly more shocking than what Uriel had actually done. She couldn’t count this as an attack; she couldn’t claim that Uriel had caused her any undue suffering because, the hard truth of it was, Eleanore had wanted Uriel and the volatile, violent nature that came with his vampire form.

  He’d done everything she had secretly needed him to do—everything she’d yearned for. How could he have known? Had he even been aware that each time he had taken over and forced more submission into her trembling form, he was only fulfilling her dearest, deepest secrets and desires?

  Eleanore shuddered as she recalled the many times she’d brought herself to orgasm while alone—in her shower, in her bed, even in the car once while stuck in traffic. She was a sexual creature by nature, but had never been able to explore that side of herself with another person.

  Last night, Uriel had somehow been able to see right through her to give her what she needed. She’d never had an orgasm like the one he had brought her to. And she wanted more. Right now, in fact. In that rented bed in that quaint two-story cottage on that cool, foggy shore.

  She was actually wet for it; she could feel Uriel’s warmth at her back, his strong presence wrapped around her. She could sense her own naked vulnerability, and even the throbbing soreness of the bite marks on her neck was turning her on.

  She glanced down at the strong, well-muscled arm draped possessively over her and thought of Uriel’s whispered words.

  I love you.

  Had she imagined those words or had he really projected them into her mind? If he hadn’t, then she was losing it. But if he had and he’d meant it, then . . .

  Her eyes trailed over the handsome planes of his sleeping face. With her fingertips she gently touched his cheek and brushed them over his lips. He’s so perfect, she thought. And he’s mine.

  And then she almost laughed. She let her hand drop and shook her head. I’m hopeless, she thought with a slight smile. He’s obviously exhausted. Let the poor boy rest.

  She glanced across the room at the windows again and pondered the color of the fog. It had to be very early morning, perhaps just after sunrise. The sky was thick with the soup of grounded clouds. She could barely make out the edge of the balcony just beyond the glass doors.

  Very slowly, so as not to wake the archangel beside her, Eleanore slipped her small frame out from beneath his heavy arm and rose from the bed. Uriel frowned where he lay in the center of the mattress, but he didn’t wake. He seemed deeply under and barely stirred as she padded across the room toward the adjoining bathroom.

  Once there, she closed and locked the door behind her. She needed a long, hot shower.

  “Something is wrong.”

  Michael looked up from where he was seated at the table, dressed in the blue uniform of an NYPD officer. “What do you mean?”

  Max frowned and put down his coffee cup. “I don’t know.” He couldn’t put his finger on it. There was a sour taste in his mouth, though. The air felt strange; as if it were charged with some kind of negativity. There was a churning in his stomach that he’d never felt before.

  “I think it’s Uriel,” he finally said.

  Michael put down his own coffee cup and narrowed his gaze. “Az said he was doing well when he left him with Ellie.”

  “I know, but . . .” Max shook his head, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He could always tell what was going on with his archangels. He was their guardian; he was connected to them in an indelible way. And right now, he kept seeing Uriel’s face in his mind’s eye. There was fog around him, but as Max concentrated, the fog lifted, revealing the rising sun over an ocean of blue.

  He froze. He straightened and pinned Michael with a stunned look. “He’s in trouble.”

  “Where is he?” Michael asked, pushing from the table to stand.

  “The West Coast,” Max replied, also standing. “Give me a few seconds and the mansion will take us there.”

  Clever, Uriel. Very clever.

  Uriel frowned in his sleep, uncertain whether he was hearing someone speak to him, or if it was his own voice that was floating around in his head.

  I’m impressed, brother. You managed to get what you wanted, didn’t you?

  Now Uriel’s blood began to run cold. He recognized the voice. Samael was speaking to him, but Uriel couldn’t seem to open his eyes to face the Fallen One. He couldn’t wake up. He felt strangely heavy and sedated.

  You had fun torturing your archess. I’m obviously jealous. However, though you caused her a good deal of physical pain in your . . . methods, I can’t take her from you. You only did as she desired. There was a sharp spike of unfathomable envy that prickled at Uriel’s skin. And that doesn’t count.

  There followed a stillness, filled with electriclike loathing and a simmering desire for revenge. Uriel recognized that well enough. He was the former Angel of Vengeance, after all.

  But, of course, Samael continued slowly, you knew that.

  What’s happening? Uriel thought. He couldn’t get his bearings. He had no idea where he was; everything was dark around him and his brain felt clouded. He again tried to wake, to rouse himself and come into something solid. But his world would not cooperate.

  Laughter. Low and ice cold.

  Tsk, tsk, Uriel. You can fight me all you want. But you’re a vampire now. How soon you forget your new weaknesses. There are some things, little brother, which you most assuredly cannot fight.

  Fear, real and hard and life-threatening, lodged itself in Uriel’s gut. It churned there, burning up his mind even as his form—wherever it was—went numb with a cold certainty. Death was beyond this wall of black around him. Death awaited him.

  All he would have to do is open his eyes.

  Close, Uriel, but no cigar. Death does await you, but it isn’t your sleep that holds it at bay. It’s your archess who unconsciously keeps you safe. She doesn’t even know that she protects you. She has no idea that it’s by her own instinctive will that clouds surround your chamber, blocking the sun from your sleeping form.

  Shock ramrodded through Uriel at Sam’s words. He remembered everything in that split second—the night before, the taste of Eleanore, his delicious, perfect claiming of his beautiful archess.

  And then he remembered the room and its many windows that looked out over the ocean and the open sky beyond. He’d fallen asleep without a care—and forgotten all about the impending morning and its very bright, very deadly sun.

  There was more laughter, evil and dark and all around him.

  I suggest you wake soon, little brother. Because I can control the weather as well. And I’ve never been fond of cloudy days.

  With that, Samael’s presence slipped from his mind and Uriel’s heartbeat ratcheted up to a hard-drumming, painful degree.

  Wake up, damn it! Fight this!

  He knew from one night’s experience that vampires did not actually become comatose during the day, and yet he couldn’t fight the sleep that had been draped so heavily over him.

/>   It was Samael’s doing. The Fallen One had some sort of power over this cursed form. It made sense, being that Uriel was a vampire by Samael’s will alone.

  At the edge of Uriel’s senses, there was the slightest prickling of pain. It was so distant, it was barely noticeable. More like a tingling, really. But it was foreboding in the extreme and Uriel became more desperate.

  He imagined his body moving, his fingers twitching, and reached out with every ounce of his power to rouse his slumbering body from where it rested, so helpless and immobile, on the mattress beneath him. He failed.

  The distant tingling at the edges of his body spread to a slow-growing burn.

  Eleanore shut off the stream of water in the shower and ran her hands over her head, shoving her hair out of her eyes. She stepped out, wrapped a towel around her, and started to pat her long hair dry with another one.

  The bathroom was thick with steam and the mirror was fogged up, but her gaze was caught by a stream of light from beneath the bathroom door.

  For some reason, it gave her pause. She frowned at it, feeling as if it were out of place. It shouldn’t be there, she thought warily. She didn’t know why, but she strongly felt as if the light were wrong.

  She threw off her towel and quickly pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, leaving her undergarments on the floor. Then she opened the door and stepped out into the room beyond.

  It was too bright. Daylight flooded the room, no longer kept at bay by a thick blanket of fog beyond the second-floor balcony. Eleanore’s gaze automatically fell on Uriel, his strong body immobile and half-covered by the sheet on the bed. He was on his back, deep in sleep, his handsome face pale, his lips blanched, his hair longer and darker than it had been before the curse.

  The curse, Eleanore thought numbly.

  A single, überbright stream of light had crept at an angle across the carpet and made its way to the bed upon which Uriel lay.