Eleanore blushed and looked away.
“When you’ve finished, I’ll be happy to give you a ride back to your apartment.”
She nodded. Then he opened the door, stepped out into the hall, and closed it behind him, leaving her alone.
Out in the hall, Samael stopped and ran a shaking hand through his white-blond hair. Then he lowered his hand and looked at it.
This is unexpected, he thought. I’m trembling?
She was getting to him. Her nearness. Her perfection. Knowing what she was and what she meant—it was too much. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she might feel.
And she was so good. She’s been created as a mate for an angel—and yet here she was, her own woman, replete with her own thoughts and morals and her own lifetime to back them up. She was her own person.
She no more belonged to Uriel than Samael had belonged to the Old Man.
It was strange for him to realize all of this. He’d never thought so much about one human being before. It was making him feel . . . off. Not quite himself.
Samael moved down the hall to the top of the marble staircase.
“Jason, where is Lilith?” he called down to the young man who was walking through the foyer below, a cell phone to one ear.
The man immediately disconnected the call and pocketed the phone. “I’m not certain, my lord. But I will find her for you right away.”
Samael nodded once, and then descended the stairs. Jason met him at the landing.
“Do you mind my asking how our guest is doing?” Jason inquired. He was a handsome young man with brown hair and blue eyes. As he had been when he was with Sam in Eleanore’s apartment, he was once more dressed in a very expensive blue suit. He appeared tall, though not as tall as his master. He was also fairly well built.
There was the air of wisdom and silent obedience about him that utterly belied the youth in his handsome features. He waited patiently as Samael glanced once back up the stairs and then turned to face him again.
“She’s beautiful,” Samael whispered. “And precious.” He frowned then, and stared at something unseen, somewhere in the vicinity of the marble ground. “I believe I have her trust. And I’m fairly certain she’ll wish to see me again.” He looked back up and met Jason’s gaze. “Any word from lover boy?”
“Not yet, my lord. But soon, I’ve no doubt.”
“No.” Samael smiled and shook his head. “Nor do I.”
Eleanore sank into the fine leather of the passenger seat and tried not to fidget. Everything was happening so fast and it was all so unbelievable, she didn’t really know what to make of it.
First, Christopher Daniels. And now Samuel Lambent. Two extremely big people in one very small town in two extremely short days. It was a little overwhelming.
Eleanore closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest of the luxury vehicle. It smelled nice in here. Like well-oiled leather, new car scent and gentle, wafting cologne.
Money, she realized. This is what real money smells like.
She’d always thought her family was well off, but there was something subtly different about this. Maybe it was the fact that none of them had ever driven a Bentley.
“I apologize if I’ve made your life even more complicated,” Sam said suddenly.
Eleanore opened her eyes and turned to gaze at him. Jesus, he’s beautiful, she thought. His profile was straight out of a manga comic. So perfect. The gold watch on his left wrist glittered momentarily under a passing streetlight and Eleanore shook her head, allowing it to fall back against the headrest once more. “You’ve made it more interesting, that’s for sure,” she whispered.
He chuckled, the sound sending delicious rivulets of pleasure through Eleanore’s body. How does he do that?
“I’m about to make it even more interesting,” he said then, his voice dropping to become even quieter.
Eleanore stilled. She watched him as he turned to glance at her. “I’m sorry, Eleanore, but I wasn’t lying when I told you I make it my business to learn everything I can about people I deal with. And I know about your association with Christopher Daniels.”
She blinked and frowned, not sure how to feel about that. “What about him?”
Sam’s grip on the wheel tightened and then loosened again. She saw the tension riding up his arms and into his shoulders. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he surveyed the streets outside. “He isn’t what he seems to be.”
That’s mysterious, Eleanore thought. Okay. Elaborate, please.
“What do you mean?” she asked out loud.
At that, Samuel Lambent turned and fixed Eleanore with a hard gaze. “Let’s just say you and I aren’t the only two in the world with something to hide.”
CHAPTER SIX
Uriel glanced up from where he sat in the wooden chair before the dark windows, their curtains pulled back to reveal the blackness of the earliest Monday morning hours beyond.
Michael felt the archangel’s green gaze and turned to meet it. Uriel’s tall figure was framed by the night behind him. His expression was eerily calm and yet a touch too determined for Michael’s tastes. He’d never seen his brother like this before. Uriel had been named the Fire of God in closed quarters. The name was spoken in hushed tones by those who knew they’d done wrong. He was justice cloaked in shadow; the one whom guilty men feared seeing when they looked over their shoulders. The Angel of Vengeance had an indomitable will. An eye for seeing souls. And a sword that was sharp and quick and merciless.
And yet Michael had still never seen him like this.
He couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. He was just . . . stark. Stoic. Scary as hell.
The two angels simply stared at each other, neither speaking. Michael wondered how long it would go on when Uriel finally stood, gracefully, slowly, and strode through the room toward the halls and bedrooms beyond.
He was headed toward his wing of the mansion. Michael was worried; Samael’s challenge still hung over them unanswered, and Uriel was impulsive. He stood to lose too much. His archess was all he’d ever really wanted. Michael was certain that if Uriel was given the chance, he would try to contact Samael and take him up on his deal. But he couldn’t leave the mansion without Max at least knowing about it. The guardian was intricately tied to the magical building; he always knew what it was doing.
Michael took a deep breath and released it slowly. The situation was unbearable, but Uriel couldn’t be allowed to barter with the Fallen One. Not under any circumstances.
Uriel moved through the halls wrapped in an utterly belying calm. His mind had been made up from the get-go. And when he’d felt the envelope in the pocket of his black leather jacket, he’d known it was from Samael.
All he needed now was some privacy.
He reached his quarters, entered his room, and shut the door behind him. Then he paced to the fireplace, waved a hand over the hearth, and gazed into the flames that suddenly erupted into existence. They crackled and glowed and provided enough light for him to read the small envelope that he then took out of his pocket.
It was light gray, with a charcoal-colored seal. The image embedded in the seal was of a pair of angel wings. A note had been hand scrawled on one side of the envelope: “Do not break this seal.” It was a half-warning. Uriel was very familiar with those. The Old Man had been quite fond of them and Uriel had been assigned to dole out the justice to all who disobeyed them.
In essence, they were warnings without reason. In whole, it should have read, “Do not break this seal . . . unless you have business with Samael.”
Which he did.
Uriel swiped his thumb beneath the seal and broke it. The fire beside him leapt higher, filling the room with a red-orange radiance that grew until it was all-encompassing.
He was a bit surprised at first—but the surprise faded fast. He didn’t bother placing his arm over his eyes. Instead, he faced the fire, gritted his teeth, and waited. The blaze engulfed him, painless but
warm and bright enough that if he had been human, he would have been blinded for life.
It receded after a few seconds and Uriel was no longer in his master bedroom.
“Ah, so you’ve decided to join us,” Samael said from where he stood beside a liquor tray, pouring himself a Scotch on the rocks. The room Uriel stood in seemed to be a study, as opulently designed and decorated as everything else Samael surrounded himself with.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that just yet,” Uriel muttered.
Samael laughed and turned to face him. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Uriel said nothing. His gaze flicked from Samael to the tall, handsome man who was standing calmly against one wall. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed in a fine Italian suit. “Jason,” he said in cool greeting.
Jason’s azure eyes glittered, flashing malign intent.
“You knew what you were doing,” Uriel told him.
“Said the avenging angel with the apathetic sword arm,” Jason shot back, his tone still calm, but his gaze shooting daggers.
Samael watched the two with interest. He arched a brow and returned his glass to the small table. “Perhaps it would be best if we got down to business.”
“I have some terms of my own,” Uriel stated as he turned to face the archangel he and his brothers called the Fallen One.
Samael calmly gestured to the small gray envelope that now rested, open, in Uriel’s hand. “By all means. Name them and they will appear on the document.”
Uriel glanced down at the envelope. Then he pulled the white sheet of paper out from its interior and deftly unfolded it. It was blank. But he knew it wouldn’t remain so for long.
“I imagine you’ll want equal face time with the archess,” Samael suggested, his own charcoal eyes shining with devious light. As he spoke, words of deep black ink, written in a language only vaguely known eons ago, appeared upon the page in Uriel’s hand. “And, of course, an extra day or two to undo what damage has already been done,” Samael added.
More words appeared on the page.
Uriel fought the urge to crumple it in his irritation. But, though he allowed the document to remain intact, his grip tightened and his teeth began to grind. He looked up and leveled the blond archangel with a withering gaze. “I want a hell of a lot more than that,” he said. “I want your promise that if I win, you will stay away from the others.”
That seemed to catch Samael by some small amount of surprise. He paused and considered Uriel’s words. “I assume that by ‘others’ you mean the other archesses.”
Uriel noticed that no further writing had appeared on the page. He smiled a rueful smile. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid, Samael.”
Samael shrugged nonchalantly, apparently completely unaffected by Uriel’s saber rattling. “More concerned, really, than anything else.” He paced around Uriel to the fire that blazed in the hearth across the room. There, he leaned over it, bracing his arms on the mantle as he gazed into the flames. “You’re playing with actual people here, you and your brothers. Real souls, real women, with lives of their own.” He straightened again and turned to Uriel. “And if they choose to reject any of you, I doubt you’ll give them the option. Freedom is not a choice for an archess, is it?”
“And you plan to save them from us—is that it?” Uriel asked, a look of utter disbelief on his handsome face.
Again, Samael shrugged. He smiled but didn’t answer. Instead, he changed the subject. “I can understand your reticence in signing, Uriel. After all, I’m far better at this than you and your brothers. I can see your need to protect the claims on these souls that you believe you’ve staked.”
“You won’t bait me, Samael. Michael, maybe. Gabriel, certainly. But me?” Uriel shook his head.
“Of course not,” Samael agreed readily. “The Angel of Vengeance can’t be fooled so easily into behaving in any form of rash manner.”
At this, Uriel bristled, but he kept his visage calm. “Those are my terms, Samael. Accept them or there will be no bargain.”
“Oh, there needn’t be a bargain, Uriel,” Sam said as he strode across the room toward the beryl-eyed archangel. “It matters little to me. Eleanore Granger can be mine by tomorrow night, with or without your blood on that document,” he promised. “I simply can’t pass up an opportunity to get a little something extra.” He stood before Uriel, the two angels head-to-head, toe-to-toe, and he peered deeply into his enemy’s eyes. “The Angel of Vengeance would make a very beneficial addition to my staff,” he whispered. “That is the only reason I have proposed a wager at all.” He shook his head once. “Otherwise, the archess is almost assuredly already mine.”
Uriel gazed long and hard into Samael’s stormy eyes. He thought of Eleanore Granger healing the child in the restroom despite the risk to herself that it posed. He recalled the way she smelled—like soap and lavender. He saw her eyes, so deep and indigo blue, their pupils expanded with desire.
She had wanted him. Nearly as badly as he’d wanted her. There was no denying that. It was this mutual desire that made Uriel confident he had a solid chance with her. If Samael backed off, Uriel might be able to undo whatever damage the Fallen One had already done.
He was good, Samael. Very, very good. With no more than a glance, he’d coaxed devout queens from their kings and launched battles that saw thousands dead.
Uriel took a slow, deep breath, composing himself before he spoke. Finally, he said, “I want a week alone with her. And you keep your lies to yourself.”
“I would never dream of lying to a woman.” Samael grinned, perfect white teeth flashing. “It isn’t my style.”
The contract grew warm in Uriel’s grip. He looked down to see that the entire page was now covered in the black ink lettering. There were two lines drawn at the bottom. One for Samael’s signature. The other for his.
The Fallen One snapped his fingers and a pen appeared in his hand. At the same time, the giant polished oak desk that was against the wall a moment ago was suddenly directly beside them. Samael snatched the contract out of Uriel’s hand and placed it on the table.
Then he turned back to Uriel and held up the pen. It was a clear crystal fountain pen. It looked as though there was no ink in it. “I suggest you read it over very carefully before you put pen to paper,” the archangel told him. “My contracts tend to be binding.”
Uriel’s gaze flicked to the pen in his hand and then to the contract on the table. He read it over, knowing full well that it most likely did no good to be careful. There was no such thing as safety when dealing with Samael. His grip on the document tightened when he saw that the clause he had requested regarding the other archesses had been left out. Samael wasn’t giving an inch. But there was nothing he could do about it.
When he’d finished, he turned back to his rival. “You first.”
The Fallen One arched a brow and then faced the table. With an expression on his beautiful face that gave away absolutely no trace of emotion, Samael placed the tip of the pen to the inside of his wrist and pressed hard. The metal slid into his vein and the pen filled with the deep red liquid.
Uriel forced himself to remain calm as he watched the most powerful archangel in existence sign his name in blood on the first of the two lines. When Samael had finished, the pen magically emptied itself once more—and the Fallen One held it out for him. He didn’t say anything; just waited for Uriel to make his move.
Uriel took the pen, and without hesitating, he pressed it into his own vein. The pain was far greater than it should have been, but then he had expected as much. Samael would pass up no opportunity to cause him, or any of his brothers, agony.
He never gave the fallen archangel the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurt. He simply placed the pen to the line and signed his own name. When he’d finished, he handed the pen back and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. Both pen and contract vanished. “I’ll see you in a week, Vengeful One,” Samael said softly. “Until
then”—he smiled, raising a glass of red wine that Uriel hadn’t seen him retrieve—“good luck.”
Samael took a sip of the wine, and then he and his servant and the study they’d been standing in were gone. Uriel was back in his room, in the mansion. And the inside of his wrist was throbbing.
“You have to be on live television in less than an hour, Uriel. You can cancel, of course,” Max told him, with faked nonchalance. “However, you’ll then have to explain to Jacqueline Rain and the half of the world that watches her why you changed your mind and ruined her show with absolutely no warning whatsoever. Then there will be inquiries. Most likely, far too many for our particular comfort level.”
Uriel shot Max an utterly exasperated look and again ran his hand through his hair. He was pacing back and forth across the foyer of the mansion and had been for the last twenty minutes. It was Monday afternoon and Jacqueline Rain was queen of Monday afternoons. This interview had been set up long ago and there was no way to cancel it. His mind was feverishly working, formulating the beginnings of a plan, and every interruption to his thoughts felt like a needle jammed through the pincushion of his mind.
Cars were waiting for him outside. The press had apparently gathered in the blocked-off street outside of the studio. Max’s cell phone had been ringing so often and so loudly, the guardian had been forced to switch it off.
The world was waiting for him.
And he had less than six days to win the heart of his soul mate.
“You’ve made a deal with the Fallen One,” Michael remarked from where he leaned against the banister, his well-muscled arms crossed over his chest. “I hope you have a plan.”
Uriel had to hand it to the archangel. Michael was disappointed in him; that was a given. But the man was also intelligent and wise enough to know that berating Uriel at this juncture would do no one any good.