Текст книги "Raziel"

Автор книги: Kristina Douglas

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In a place with, supposedly, limitless, effortless food and a beautiful man who’d kissed me. I supposed things could be worse.

I had to run to catch up with him. He made no effort to adjust his stride to mine, and I was damned if I was going to complain. It was taking forever to get to his rooms—we went through a maze of hallways, and up so many stairs I was ready to fling myself down on the polished wood floors, gasping and panting like a landed fish.

“How much farther?” I gasped, clinging to the thick, carved handrail.

He was watching me out of narrowed eyes. “One more flight. My rooms are at the top of the building.”

“They would be,” I said in a dire voice. “And I don’t suppose you believe in things like elevators?”

“We don’t need them,” he said.

No wonder Sarah was so lean and fit at fifty-something. She didn’t need yoga, she just needed these stairs.

“Sarah isn’t fifty-something,” Raziel said.

I froze. “That time I didn’t say it out loud.”

“No, you didn’t. You’re very easy to read. Most humans are.”

Most humans? WTF?

“Wait until we get to my rooms.”

I hadn’t said anything that time either. I was getting seriously creeped out by this situation. It didn’t matter how much food I got or how pretty he was, this was just plain weird. The kiss had been nice, from what I could remember, but I wasn’t sure kisses were enough to—

“I’m not going to kiss you again. I didn’t kiss you in the first place—you were drowning. I gave you breath.”

This was just . . . wrong. Clearly silence wasn’t silence to the creature I was following, so I quickly changed the subject, trying not to think about the cool salt taste of his mouth on mine. “Then how old is Sarah? She’s married to Aza—what’s his name?”

“Azazel,” he said. “Yes, they are married; at least, that’s as close a definition as most people could understand. And I don’t know how old Sarah is, nor do I care.”

I looked at him with astonishment. “She’s got to be at least twenty years older than he is. And he’s, what . . . thirty-five? Cool.”

“He’s older than she is,” he said in a dry voice. “And you might think twice about passing judgment on someone like Sarah.”

If Azazel was older than Sarah, then I was the Virgin Mary. “I’m not passing judgment,” I said rapidly, following him down the hallway toward another miserable, cock-sucking, goddamned, motherfucking flight of stairs. “I meant it. Too often it’s men who have younger lovers. I heartily approve of boy toys.”

“You think Azazel is a boy toy? He’ll be entertained by the notion.”

“Christ, don’t tell him I said that! I expect by this time their marriage is more platonic than anything else.”

He looked amused, which was even more annoying. “I believe they have a vigorous sex life, though I can ask Azazel to tell you all about it if you prefer.”

“No need,” I said hastily. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it is not,” he said in that odd, half-formal way of speaking.

I looked up at the steep flight of stairs. It was the last one, he’d said. Of course it had to be the steepest and longest. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I could make it. If it killed me, I was going to make it.

“What do her children think of her new husband?” If I kept him talking he might not notice how long it was taking me to get up the stairs.

“She has no children, and Azazel isn’t her new husband. He’s her only one.”

I thought back to Sarah’s gentle, tender concern. “That’s a shame,” I said. “She would have been a wonderful mother.”

“Yes.” It was one word, but there was a wealth of meaning beneath it.

Suddenly I thought back to the stretch of beach in front of the house, the wide expanse of lawn. With no toys, no games littering the beach. Something felt off about the place. “Where do the children live around here?” I asked, uneasy.

“Children?”

“The women who were with Sarah—she said they were other wives. Some of them were quite young; there must be children.”

“There are no children here.”

“That goes against whatever crazy cult you have going on here? You send the children away?” I was righteously infuriated, and it gave me energy. And the end of the stairs was in sight, thank God. I was ready to fling myself on the top landing with a weeping cry of “Land!”

“The women here don’t have children.”

“Why not?” Shit, it wasn’t the top of the stairs, it was just a landing. I faltered, turning the corner, looking at what simply had to be the last flight. Maybe. I wanted to cry, and I never cried.

Before I realized what he was going to do, he’d scooped me up in his arms and started up the final flight of stairs.

I was too shocked to struggle. His arms were like iron bands, his body hard and cold and uncomfortable; for a bare second I considered arguing, then thought better of it. Anything was better than walking.

“You know, if it weren’t for the stairs, I could manage it with no problem,” I said, keeping myself as stiff as he was.

He snorted, saying nothing. When he reached the top of the stairs he dumped me on my feet, seconds before I could demand that he let me down. The hallway was shorter than the lower ones, with only one double door in the center of it. I must be near the top of this damned skyscraper, I thought, remembering those cantilevered shelves that stretched over the ocean.

He’d left me again, already pushing open one of the doors, and once again I followed him, resentful as hell until I stepped into the dimly lit apartment.

The door closed behind me automatically, and I caught my breath in wonder.

It was like being on the prow of a ship. The front of the room was a bank of windows looking out over the night-black sea. Several of them were open, and I could smell the rich briny scent of it, hear the sound of the waves as they lapped against the rocks below. There were seagulls in the distance, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. At least something in this crazy place was normal.

“Sit down,” he said.

He was standing in the shadows. There were two mission-style sofas in the room, upholstered in white linen, and a low table between them. With a covered tray on top, a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne waiting, and a bottle of red wine open to one side.

I stared at the table mistrustfully. “Shit,” I said. I knew without question that there would be meat loaf and mashed potatoes beneath the domed cover.

“How did you manage that?”

“Sit down and eat,” he said. “I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”

I stiffened. “And what does your wanting to go to bed have to do with me?”

Such a pretty mouth, such a sour smile. “Since I don’t intend to be anywhere near you when I go to bed, I won’t be around to answer your incessant questions. So if you want answers, sit down.”

“You’re an asshole.” I took a seat and pulled the cover off the tray. The smell of meat loaf was enough to make me moan with pleasure. Ignoring him, I started in on it, only looking up when I realized he’d poured me a glass of the red wine and pushed it toward me.

Way to make me feel like a mannerless glutton, I thought dismally.

“Mannerly,” he said.

“What?”

“Mannerly glutton. You haven’t drooled or dropped food or—”

I dropped my fork. “Stop that! I don’t know how you do it, but stop it!”

He took a sip from his own glass of wine, leaning back against the cushions of the opposite couch with a weary sigh. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s rude of me.”

“You bet your ass,” I snapped. Of all the mental assaults of the day, his invasion of my thoughts felt somehow worse than anything else. I ought to be able to have my errant thoughts be private. Particularly when looking at Raziel made them so very errant. When he wasn’t annoying me.

But I’d better behave. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude as well. Did you want some of this?” I gestured toward the decimated meat loaf.

He shook his head. “I don’t eat meat.”

It was my turn to snort. “Yes you do. You ate a hot dog.” I paused. “How do I know that? When was I around you when you were eating hot dogs?”

“I don’t eat meat when I’m in Sheol,” he said.

“Is that what this place is called? Isn’t that another word for hell?”

“It means ‘the hidden place,’” he said. “And you’re not in hell.”

I stopped shoveling food in my face long enough to drink some wine, hoping it might calm me down. I looked up to realize that Raziel was watching me out of his strange black and silver eyes, watching me too closely, and unfortunately it wasn’t with unbridled lust.

“I want to go home,” I said abruptly, pushing away the tray.

“You haven’t had your strawberry shortcake yet,” he said. “I’ll open the champagne—”

“I don’t want any champagne, I want to go home.”

“You can’t. You don’t have a home anymore.”

“Why not? How long have I been gone?”

He turned his attention to his glass of wine. “From New York? A day and a half.”

I stared at him blankly. “That’s impossible. How can my hair have grown this long in a day and a half?”

“You still have blisters on your feet from those shoes, don’t you?”

I didn’t need to touch my heel to check. The blisters were still there. “If I’ve only been gone for a day, then my apartment must still be there. I want to go back.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re dead.”

“Crap,” I said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISET THE WINEGLASS DOWN ON THE table very carefully, pleased to see my hand wasn’t shaking at all. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t suspected as much—after all, I was no dummy. Men with wings, fires of hell, bloodsuckers. One moment I was in New York City, minding my own business, ogling a gorgeous man at the hot-dog stand, and the next I’d fallen down the rabbit hole. It didn’t mean I was going to give up without a fight. “How is that even possible?” My voice was hoarse but, apart from that, entirely calm. I’d learned to hide my reactions and emotions from my mother, Saint Hildegarde.

“You think you were immortal?” Raziel said. “Everyone dies sooner or later. In your case, it was a combination of those idiot shoes of yours and a crosstown bus.”

Okay. I sat back, the meat loaf sitting like a lump in the pit of my stomach, floating in a pool of gravy grease. “What were you doing there? You were there before I crossed the street. You were ahead of me at the hot-dog stand. I remember now.” I stared at him, thoroughly unsettled. “I remember everything now. Why? Why do I remember now when I couldn’t before?”

“I lifted what we call the Grace. It’s one of the gifts we have, the ability to make someone forget things. You wanted to remember, so I lifted it.”

“You should call it what it is: a mind-fuck,” I said, feeling definitely peevish. “What were you doing there? What am I doing here?”

“I was there to collect you.”

I let myself melt off the seat down onto the floor, needing something solid beneath me. I wasn’t going to hyperventilate. I hadn’t had a panic attack since I was a teenager, dealing with my mother’s attempts to save me from the devil. Guess Mom failed, because it looked as if I’d gone to the devil after all, if Raziel’s fangs and blood-sucking tendencies were anything to go by. Calm,I reminded myself. The sound of the sea would soothe me if I could just concentrate on it for a moment or two.

The danger passed, and I sat straight, rallying. “And exactly what were you—”

“Be quiet and I’ll tell you what you need to know,” he said irritably. “Your time was over. My job is to collect people and ferry them to the next . . . plane of existence. You weren’t supposed to fight me. No one does.”

I was freezing, colder than when I’d been lying on the wet sand. “What can I say, I fight everyone,” I said glumly.

“I believe it. As annoying as you are, I was still fairly certain that you’re an innocent, and I—”

“Depends on how you define innocent.”

He glared at me, and I subsided. “I assumed I was taking you to . . . what you might call heaven. Unfortunately I was wrong, and at the last minute I became foolishly sentimental and pulled you back.”

“From the jaws of hell,” I supplied. “My sainted mother would be so pleased.”

He didn’t react to that. He probably knew all about my crazy-ass mother. Was probably best friends with her, being an angel. No, he was a bloodsucker as well—she wouldn’t countenance that. “In a word, yes,” he said.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be quite so cranky with you.” I made an effort to be fair. If he’d saved me from eternal damnation, then I supposed he deserved his props. “Then what happened? You got sick?”

He looked disgusted at the thought. “We can’t tolerate fire. In particular hellfire, but we don’t like any kind of flame. The women here have to tend the candles and fires when we need them. I got singed pulling you back, and it poisoned my blood. It would have killed me if you hadn’t asked for help.”

That was news to me. “Really? Who did I ask for help?”

“I don’t know—I was unconscious at the time. I imagine you asked God.”

Considering that I’d always had mixed feelings about the existence of God, I kind of doubted that. If God had created my born-again mother, he had a very nasty sense of humor. “And God sent them? The men who brought you—brought us back here?”

“God doesn’t involve himself in the day-to-day business of life. Not since free will was invented. But if you asked God for help, Azazel would have heard you, and he’s the one who came to get us.”

“Azazel, Sarah’s husband? I doubt it. He hates me.”

“Azazel doesn’t hate anyone. Though if he heard you being rude about Sarah—”

“I wasn’t rude, I was envious,” I said. “So they came and found us and brought us here. How?”

He took a sip of wine, stalling.

“How?”

“You know, this is going to take an eternity if you don’t manage to infer anything on your own,” he said.

“All right, I’ll inferup the wazoo and you can tell me if I’m wrong or right. I’m inferringthat you’re . . . God, some kind of angel. If your job is to collect people and ferry them to the next existence, then that’s usually the work of angels, isn’t it? At least according to Judeo-Christian mythology.”

“Judeo-Christian mythology is often quite accurate. Angels escort the souls of the dead in Islam and the Viking religion as well.”

“So is that what you are? A fucking angel? Is that what all of you are?”

“Yes.”

Somehow I was expecting more of an argument. “I don’t believe you,” I said flatly.

He let out a sigh of sheer exasperation. “You’re the one who came up with it.”

The problem was, I didbelieve him. It all made sense, in a crazy-ass way. Which meant all my slightly atheistic suppositions were now out the window, and my mother had been right. That was even more depressing than being dead. “And how did they bring us here from the woods? They flew, didn’t they?”

“I told you, I was unconscious at the time. But yes, I imagine they flew.”

“They have wings.”

“Yes.”

“You have wings.”

“Yes.”

That was too much. “I don’t see them.”

“You’ll have to take it on faith,” he grumbled. “I’m not about to offer a demonstration.”

“So—”

“Just be quiet for a few minutes, would you?” he snapped.

“You’re not very nice for an angel,” I muttered.

“Who says angels are supposed to be nice? Look, it’s simple. You died in a bus accident. I was supposed to take you to heaven. For some reason you were heading for hell, I experienced a moment of insanity and pulled you back, and now you’re stuck. You can’t go back. You’re dead, and your body has already been cremated, so I can’t return you even if I thought it might be possible. Right now you’re here in Sheol with a family of angels and their wives, and you’re going to have to put up with it until I figure out what I can do with you.”

“This doesn’t make sense. If I’m dead and cremated, why am I here?” I looked down at my all-too-corporeal self. “I’m real, my body is real.” I reached up and hugged myself, and his eyes went to my breasts. Real breasts that responded to his look, wanted his touch.

I was losing my mind. First off, I didn’t want him touching me. Secondly, last time I checked, my breasts were incapable of thinking. Iwas the one who wanted him to touch me.

I was insane.

“On this plane you exist and your body is real. Not on the mortal plane.” He pulled his gaze away from my body, a relief.

“So I’m stuck here with a bunch of Stepford wives. Aren’t there any girl angels?”

“No.”

“Well, fuck that! Hasn’t God heard of women’s lib?”

“God hasn’t heard of anything—he’s not involved. Free will, remember?”

“Male chauvinist asshole.”

“God isn’t male.”

“Well, he sure as hell isn’t female,” I snapped. Not that I should have wasted the energy. Judeo-Christian theology was patriarchal and male-centric?

Surprise, surprise.

“True enough.”

“So you live here together in this happy little commune and ferry people to heaven and hell. Isn’t that too big a job for the bunch of you? How many people die every minute of every day?”

“One point seventy-eight per second, one hundred and seven per minute, six thousand four hundred and eight per hour, nearly one hundred and fifty-four thousand per day, fifty-six—”

Oh, God. I had to be rescued by a pedant. “No need to get literal—I get the picture. Aren’t you a little bit overworked?”

“Most people don’t need an escort.” He poured himself another glass of wine, then gestured with the bottle toward mine. I shook my head. I was already too rattled—I didn’t need alcohol making things worse.

“Why did I need one? I’m no one important, no great villainous mastermind. Don’t tell me—it’s because of my mother.”

He looked blank for a moment; then realization dawned. Of course he knew about my mother. “Your mother has nothing to do with it. I expect someone will be escorting her to hell sooner or later.”

I’m afraid I was a bad enough daughter to chuckle at the thought. Maybe that’s why I’d been sent to hell.

“I don’t know why I was sent to get you any more than you do,” he went on in his slightly formal way. “Why did Uriel decide you were to go to hell instead of heaven?”

“Uriel? He’s one of the four archangels, isn’t he? What’s he got to say about it?”

I’d managed to surprise him. “How do you know about the four archangels? Most people aren’t that familiar with biblical history.”

“I know more than you think,” I said. “It’s part of my job.”

“What’s your job?” He looked blank. “I’ve forgotten—”

“I’m a writer. A novelist.”

“Maybe that explains why you were going to hell,” Raziel said in a wry voice.

“Shut up,” I said genially. “What’s Uriel got to do with who needs an escort or not? I don’t remember much of anything specific about him—wasn’t he the archangel of redemption?”

He was staring at me, momentarily forgetting I annoyed him. “Among other things. How do you know these things?”

“I told you.”

“Remind me—what do you write?”

I didn’t bother to disguise my irritation. He remembered my crackpot mother, but my life’s work was easily forgotten. “Old Testament mysteries,” I said in a testy voice. “They’re tongue-in-cheek, of course, and a little sarcastic, but—”

“There’s your answer. Uriel is as pitiless as a demon, and he has no sense of humor.”

“I got sentenced to hell for writing murder mysteries?” I demanded, incensed.

“Probably. Unless you have other dark secrets. Have you killed anyone? Erected false idols? Committed adultery? Consorted with demons?”

“Not until today,” I muttered.

“I’m not a demon.”

“Close enough. I know what I saw downstairs. You may be an angel, but you’re a vampire as well.” My head was about to explode.

“We’re not vampires. Vampires don’t exist. We’re blood-eaters.”

I’m afraid I rolled my eyes at such nit-picking. “Whatever. I’m not saying I believe you. I’m trying to keep an open mind about it.”

“How broad-minded of you,” he said, his voice acidic.

“Besides, you’re not very nice for an angel,” I observed. “I thought angels were supposed to be sweet and, er . . . angelic.”

“You’re thinking in modern terms. An angel is just as likely to be the instrument of divine justice with a flaming sword to smite the unworthy.”

“And what kind of angel are you, precisely?”

“Fallen.”

I should have gotten past being shocked by now. “Fallen?” I repeated, no doubt sounding a little slow on the uptake.

“I think you’ve heard enough for now,” he said. “Humans have a limited capacity to absorb this sort of thing.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I can or cannot absorb? You haven’t even begun to explain the blood and Sarah and—”

He gestured with one beautiful, elegant hand. It was a strong hand, which surprised me. Angels didn’t do any manual labor, did they? So they ferried people to heaven and hell—that didn’t require any particular strength. And what—

It was like someone had turned out the lights. Suddenly I was drifting in a cocoon, soundless, lightless, no sharp edges or uneven surfaces. I struggled for just a moment, because it felt like death, and I didn’t want to find myself in even worse trouble; then I heard Raziel’s rich, golden voice in my head: “Let go, Allie. Just let go.”

So I did.

I LOOKED AT HER, NOT moving. I didn’t want her here, didn’t want her anywhere around me. She’d slid farther down on the floor, her head resting against the seat cushion of the couch, and she looked . . . delicious. That is, if I were someone else. She was not what I needed. I poured myself another glass of wine and leaned back, surveying her as dispassionately as I could.

Which was easier said than done. For all the distance I was putting between us, I couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d saved my life, as surely as I’d saved her from Uriel’s pit of hell; and the unfortunate truth was that we were bound together, whether I wanted it or not. I most definitely didn’t want it, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.

I was thinking too much, forgetting the rule of blind obedience, the rule that Uriel tried to force down our throats, usually with little success. If I’d just tossed her and left, my life would be much simpler, and the Fallen wouldn’t be bracing for angelic retribution on top of everything else.

It was just as well she didn’t know much about Uriel. There was no doubt he was one scary motherfucker, and she was probably scared enough as it was.

Though she hadn’t looked scared. She’d simply taken in the information I’d given her, with no drama, no hysterics. I was used to a little more Sturm und Drang when I told people they were dead. She’d just blinked her warm brown eyes and said, “Crap.”

I stretched out on the other couch, looking at her. I was feeling better than I’d felt in months. Azazel was right, damn it. I’d needed the Source, rich blood filling all the empty places inside my body, repairing the broken parts, bringing me back to life. A little too much life, in fact. Because I wanted to fuck Allie Watson.

Hear that, Uriel?I sent the thought outward. Fuck and mother fuck. Deal with it.

She stirred, almost as if she could read my mind. Impossible—that Grace was given only to a bonded mate. I could read her anytime I wanted to, but there was no way she could know what I was thinking.

I shouldn’t bother trying to feel her thoughts. I was already too attached to her, whether I liked it or not. One thing was certain—I was not going to have sex with her, even if I wanted to. Hands off from now on, at least while she was awake.

Old Testament mysteries. I snorted. No wonder Uriel had judged her. She was just lucky it had been my turn. She wouldn’t have stood a chance with Azazel or any of the others—they would have tossed her without a second glance.

Which would have been a shame, I thought lazily, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the loose white clothes Sarah had provided for her.

She’d saved me last night in the forest. If she hadn’t listened, if she’d run, the Nephilim would have ripped her apart and then devoured my paralyzed body.

But she had stayed. And then, when she thought the Fallen were drowning me, she’d raced into the water to try to save me. I still couldn’t understand why.

She would have drowned if I hadn’t breathed into her, filling her with . . . That knowledge was making me uneasy, unhappy. Aroused that she held my breath inside her body. The feeling was erotic, explicit, and powerful. She held my breath, my very essence, as intense a bond as if she held my semen, my blood. I was inside her, and in return a part of her claimed me, owned me. I was irrevocably tied to her, and I hated it. I was hard just thinking about it, and obsessed by it, and I had to break her hold.

I should have insisted on waiting for the renewal ceremony until after she’d been dealt with. In my depleted state, I would have been impervious to the allure of a human female.

Not just any human female. Even at my most vulnerable moments, I’d been able to resist the most beautiful, sexual women I’d been chosen to escort.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling at all resistant to the current albatross around my neck. I was feeling . . . lustful.

This wasn’t normal. Why her, why now? Things were already in a mess, and I’d vowed not to risk bonding with a woman again.

Which meant my only sex was with myself, a quick, soulless release that kept me from exploding in rage and frustration. Or with some anonymous human looking for a night of pleasure. A night I made sure she never remembered.

Neither did I.

Every woman in our hidden kingdom was mated, bonded to one of us. There were no offspring to grow up and carry on the tradition. The only way a woman entered Sheol was as a bonded mate, so I was shit out of luck if I wanted someone new, which must please Uriel. Anything that caused pain and discomfort to the Fallen brought Uriel . . . satisfaction. I was fairly certain he was incapable of feeling joy.

But right now I was too tired, too edgy, to come up with any possible solution to the problem of Allie Watson.

I couldn’t even leave her for the night. By putting her to sleep, I’d claimed a certain responsibility for her, at least until she woke up, anywhere from six to twenty-four hours from now. Even if her sleep had been normal, I couldn’t leave her alone up here, not until I’d extracted a promise of good behavior on her part. I couldn’t risk her running off again—the sea might take her, or if she managed to find the borders of our kingdom, the Nephilim would be waiting.

There was only one bed, and I was damned if I was going to give it to her. She would likely sleep at least eight hours. She’d slid farther, so that she was lying on the floor half beneath the coffee table, her head on the thick white carpet. She’d be fine where she was.

I drained my wine and headed toward the bedroom. I pushed open the row of windows that fronted the sea and took a deep, calming breath of air. Even in the dead of winter with snow swirling down, I kept the windows open. We were impervious to cold—the heat of our bodies automatically adjusted. The sound of the ocean waves was soothing, and the cool night air reminded me that I was alive. I needed that reminder of the simple things that made up my life.

I stripped off my clothes and slid beneath the cool silk sheets. My arm still throbbed where the poison had entered, but the rest of me had healed properly, thanks to the salt water and Sarah’s blood. My arm and my cock throbbed—and both were Allie Watson’s fault.

I closed my eyes, determined to fall asleep.

I couldn’t. I kept picturing her on the floor, dead to the world. She’d had a rough couple of days as well. I knew she’d curled up next to me on the hard ground the night before—I’d been dimly aware of it through the haze of pain, and I’d been comforted.

After an hour I gave up, climbing out of the bed I’d longed for and heading for the door. At the last minute I paused and pulled on a pair of jeans. Nudity wasn’t something that meant much in Sheol, and I didn’t care about preserving her modesty. It was my own temptation I was trying to avoid. Even silk boxers or pajama pants were too thin, too easy to slip out of. These jeans had buttons, not a zipper, and it would take a major effort to get them off. Give me time enough to think twice about making such a foolish move.

I pushed the door open and walked back into the living room. It was lit only by the fitful moonlight reflected off the sea, and she was just a huddled shape in the shadows. I went over and scooped her up in my arms. She was heavier than some, though not enough to notice—her weight was no more trouble than carrying a loaf of bread would be for a human. I carried her into the bedroom and carefully set her down on the bed.

She needed to build up her stamina—she hadn’t been able to run very far, and she’d been breathless after only three flights of stairs. She was a pampered city girl, not used to actually moving.

She had a beautiful body. Her breasts were full, enticing, and her hips flared out from a well-defined waist. By current standards, she’d be considered maybe ten to fifteen pounds overweight. By the tastes of the Renaissance, she’d be considered scrawny.

The Renaissance had been one of my favorite periods. I’d enjoyed myself tremendously—the art, the music, the creativity that seemed to wash over everyone.

And the women. Full and lush and beautiful. I’d sampled a great many of them before I made the mistake of falling in love with one, only to lose her. I would have had no choice but to watch my beloved Rafaela age; back then, foolishly, I would have welcomed the chance. But she’d run from me, certain I wouldn’t want her when she looked decades older than I did. She died before I found her again.

Too many women, too many losses, each bit of pain a boon to my enemy, Uriel. I wouldn’t go through that again.

If Allie Watson was going to stay—and right now I couldn’t think of any other option—then she would have to learn to manage all those stairs. Sheol wasn’t set up for guests, and for now she was my responsibility. I couldn’t afford to coddle her.

The tangy salt breeze from the ocean rumpled my hair, and I remembered that humans were more susceptible to the cold. I pulled the sheet up over her —probably a good idea anyway.

And then I lay down beside her. It was a big bed, and she wasn’t going to shift in her sleep, migrate over to my side. She’d lie perfectly still until that particular Grace wore off. As long as my dreams didn’t move me toward her, I’d be safe.

And even if they did, I’d wake up long before I could do anything about it.