Rebel (19 page)

For a moment Cain said nothing. He was smaller than Metatron—everyone was smaller. It was odd that he seemed so powerful. “I thought we were working together,” Cain said carefully.

“We are.”

“Then why did you decide to do this on your own?
It put them all on their guard. Before this they didn’t realize there were any traitors left in Sheol. Now they know they’re in danger, and everything will be more difficult.”

Metatron eyed him narrowly. “It seemed worth the risk. If the demon spawn is born, it will give them hope for the future, and we must remove that hope. It was a logical step to take.”

“First off, I don’t know if I’d call Allie and Raziel’s child a demon spawn.”

“Of course it is! The offspring of an immortal and a human? It’s obscene. Like cats mating with dogs.”

Cain’s mouth quirked in that annoying smile, the one that always made Metatron long to hit him. “I wouldn’t go that far. Secondly, the seer has become more focused. There’s a chance that anything you try, she’ll see ahead of time.”

“If that’s the case, then she might see that you aren’t what you say you are,” Metatron pointed out. Another reason to kill her, he told himself. But Cain was too weak to do it.

“I’m willing to take that risk. No harming women or children, if there happen to be any.”

He was a fool, Metatron thought. In war you fought anyone who got in your way, man, woman, or child, ancient crone or infant in arms. He had followed orders and smote them all, and he would do so again to return to Uriel’s world.

But he knew what Cain wanted to hear—and he needed his help. He could dispose of him later if he became difficult. “I’m sorry,” he said, hoping he sounded sufficiently repentant. “I should have discussed it with you, but the idea came to me and I was impulsive.” He was never impulsive. But Cain didn’t know that.

Cain’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “Do not do
anything
without consulting me. I have a very carefully thought-out plan, and I can’t have you stomping in and ruining everything.”

“You care to share this plan of yours?” Metatron asked sourly.

“When I’m ready,” Cain said. “In the meantime, leave the Source alone.”

That was easy enough to promise. It was the seer who was in the way. “I won’t think of anything new and not tell you,” he said with mendacious honesty. After all, he’d already formulated his plan to deal with Martha. From then on, he’d be honest. If he had to.

Cain was looking at him, long and hard. Distrusting him. He would not be happy when Martha was found dead, but it would be impossible to blame Metatron. In truth, he was very well pleased with himself.

“See that you do,” Cain said finally. “I’m trusting you.”

Metatron almost barked with laughter. More fool he.

C
AIN STROLLED TOWARD THE
workout room that was the archangel Michael’s domain, a lazy smile on his face, his brain moving rapidly beneath his calm exterior. He was balancing a number of possibilities, but he’d always been good at that. Multitasking—that was what they called it nowadays, wasn’t it? He liked it best when a thousand questions swirled around in his mind. It filled the gnawing emptiness inside him, kept him too busy to listen to the one insistent voice in the back of his head, the one that never left him, the one he refused to name.

He pushed open the door. It was late morning—he still couldn’t believe how long he’d slept with Martha in his arms. Couldn’t believe that he’d slept at all. If there was a woman in his bed, she was there for sex and nothing else; and once that was finished,
then one of them had to leave. Yet there had been no sex between them, merely a semichaste kiss. Well, perhaps not so chaste. He was incapable of chaste, but for him it had come close. He could tell himself it was all part of his plan to seduce her, lure her in and make her drop her guard, but that wasn’t necessarily the truth. Maybe he just liked lying in bed with her, her breath gentle against his chest as he cradled her in his arms.

He was growing absurdly sentimental. Did the Fallen get senile dementia? He’d lived longer than most of them; maybe his brain was failing. Beating the crap out of someone would help his state of mind.

Michael was over in the corner, showing one of the newer angels some moves, but he looked up when Cain wandered in, his eyes turning even darker.

“Angel Cain, reporting for duty,” Cain drawled.

Michael said nothing. He wasn’t as thin as he’d been when Cain had last seen him, though the myriad of tattoos still swirled and danced over his bronzed skin. He was probably the most dangerous warrior in Sheol. What he lacked in bulk he more than made up for in skill. Too bad he lacked Cain’s own cunning—with that he’d be invincible.

“According to our honored leader, all residents of Sheol are required to put in a period of physical training each day,” he continued as Michael eyed him dubiously.

“You’ve been here almost a week,” Michael said finally. “What made you decide to join us?”

He gave Michael his most charming smile, even knowing it was a waste. Michael wasn’t one to be charmed by anyone but his new wife, the goddess Victoria Bellona. Cain would be charmed by her too, if he wasn’t afraid Michael would rip his head off. “Let’s not worry about the past,” he said smoothly. “I’m here now.”

Michael watched him out of hooded eyes, but Cain kept his expression deceptively pleasant. “You’re ready to let go of the past, Cain? Why is it I don’t believe you?”

Michael had moved closer, his voice low, though that was probably pointless. The dozen or so people training were watching surreptitiously as the two ancient enemies circled each other like wary dogs.

“Because you’ve always been a suspicious bastard,” Cain said. “I have no grudge against you.”

“I wasn’t even there.”

Cain felt the lazy smile freeze on his face. “It’s in the past,” he said again, and he knew Michael would hear the edge in his voice.

“Not if it still rules your life. You don’t forgive any of us, do you?”

“I thought I came here for martial training, not psychotherapy.” He was astonished at how pleasant he sounded—if one didn’t listen too closely.
The topic is off-limits, you bastard.

“I refused. Do you remember that much? When Uriel gave me the order to kill your wife as a lesson to everyone, I refused to do it.”

“I remember everything.” He shook himself. Michael hadn’t obeyed the order to come with his flaming sword to cut Tamarr down. No, he’d refused and stayed behind—leaving it to Uriel to exact his own, more horrifying punishment. “It hardly matters anymore. We have a common enemy to fight now, and—”

“And you can’t stop thinking about it.”

Michael wasn’t going to stop, Cain thought numbly. He was going to go on and on and on. . . .

“And you can’t stop blaming yourself.”

Only one way to shut him up. Cain didn’t hesitate, slamming his fist into Michael’s mouth before another word could escape. Blood erupted from his split lip, but Michael just grinned, an unholy light in his eyes.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now let’s see what else you’ve learned in the last two hundred years.”

A second later Cain was flat on his back, mindless fury rushing through his veins, and he almost leapt up, desperate to fight back. But he stayed where he was for one moment longer, controlling his breath, bringing his focus back into cold, crystal clarity. Michael knew what he was doing, working his enemy into a fury and then attacking his weak point.
If Cain jumped up and tried to beat the shit out of him, Michael would have the advantage.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, tilting his head to look at his enemy. “Is that the best you’ve got? Clearly two hundred years hasn’t made much of a difference for you. Or is it your wife’s pussy that’s slowing you down?”

Michael moved so fast a normal man wouldn’t have seen him, but Cain was expecting it, and he moved nimbly out of the way as Michael lunged toward him with a roar. “Maybe she’s got your balls,” Cain continued. “Because you sure as hell don’t have them.”

Michael slammed into him then, but Cain was ready. Nothing like attacking a man’s wife and his manhood to get him in a killing rage. Not that Cain wanted to kill Michael. Azazel was his eventual goal. And not now. Not yet.

The fight was fast and brutal. He jumped and kicked Michael in the head, and the archangel retaliated with a brutal blow to the kidneys, making Cain double over. He almost threw up, but a moment later he was moving again, slamming his elbow into Michael’s liver, listening to him gag in pain with satisfaction, hearing the crack of ribs splintering. Michael shoved his palm under Cain’s chin, shooting his head back in what would be a killing blow for humans. Cain feinted, then kicked Michael in the
arm, smashing his wrist and three fingers, a savage grin of pleasure on his bloody mouth that matched his opponent’s. Michael was down again, falling hard on the cement, and Cain realized he was going to kill him after all. He was going to land on his chest and smash his ribs and heart. Michael’s mouth and lungs would fill with blood and he would drown in it, and Cain couldn’t stop himself—the need was too great, someone had to pay—and he moved in for the killing blow.

He miscalculated. Saw it at the last minute, that Michael had managed to turn and kick upward, his foot connecting with the side of Cain’s head, and he collapsed on top of him, blood everywhere.

Silence. Complete and utter silence, and he wondered if this was what death was like. The room had been full of people, but he couldn’t hear a thing. No one was moving, and maybe that was part of death too, that everyone froze in place.

Except that Michael lay beneath him, his damaged chest moving up and down as he struggled to breathe, and Cain could feel the ripping pain in his head, the agony of a broken leg that he hadn’t even realized had been injured, and smell the thick, coppery tang of wasted blood, so different from the rich, spicy sweetness of a woman’s blood.

He heard the slow clap from somewhere behind him, joined by another, until the entire room had erupted into applause, and Cain grinned to himself.
He knew how to make an entrance, and he knew how to make an exit.

He managed, just barely, to stand, then looked down at his vanquished foe. Michael’s dark eyes were a blaze of fury, but he couldn’t move, and Cain gazed at him for a long, contemplative moment.

“Are you just going to let him lie there and bleed to death?” Victoria Bellona’s voice was caustic. “Or do I have to drag his sorry ass to the ocean?”

Cain turned his head. The goddess was looking thoroughly annoyed, secure in the knowledge that immersion in the icy salt water would restore her battered husband to her.

He knew it too, even if he’d been temporarily blinded by the killing lust. If he really wanted Michael dead, he would need to do it in private, where no one could save him. “I find I could do with a swim myself,” he managed to say, his tongue thick behind his battered face. His jaw might be broken as well, he thought dazedly.

He reached down, and it took every last bit of strength he had to haul Michael to his feet. If anyone made the mistake of trying to help him, he’d have to kick their ass too, and he was feeling a little too light-headed. Lucky for all of them they kept out of his way.

Shoving his shoulder under Michael’s arm, he started dragging him toward the doors that stood open to the sea. It was slow going, but they had time.
His clothes were red from their conjoined blood, and the thought amused him. Had he and Michael somehow bonded in their brutal, dirty fight to the death?

He saw Martha at the last minute. She was standing alone in the back, and he knew immediately that she wasn’t one of those who’d applauded their epic battle. She looked sick. If he weren’t lugging Michael, he would have shrugged. Life among the Fallen was about to get a lot more bloody. She’d have to get used to it.

He wouldn’t have made it to the edge of the sea if Michael hadn’t regained some mobility, and together they crossed the last few feet until the icy salt water caught them, pulling them out. Cain felt the darkness close over his head. He thought of Martha, with her lists and her shocked expression and her sweet mouth. Martha. He was going to have her when she came from the sea sometime; he was going to lick the salt from her skin and drink the ocean from her breasts. He was going to drown in her.

The hand that caught his ankle bit down, yanking him deeper under the water, and he opened his eyes against the stinging salt to look at Michael. If he wanted to continue the fight, then Cain was game, but he really wasn’t in the mood.

Michael moved, the water slowing him, and reached out the hand that had been broken. And Cain took it.

I
RAN.
I’
M NOT QUITE SURE WHY
. I
WAITED
until those two idiots came back out of the ocean, arms around each other like the oldest and best of friends less than five minutes after they tried to kill each other, waited until I knew he was all right. And then I ran.

It was my time for training, but everyone had stopped, mesmerized by the battle in front of them. Michael was a fierce taskmaster, and he wouldn’t accept any lame excuse for slacking off, but right then I couldn’t stand to be there. Not when their blood still stained the floor. Tory was mopping it up, clearly annoyed, and I wished I had her sangfroid. But I didn’t. I wanted to throw up.

So I ran. A good long run would pass muster as training, at least partially, and I’d make up with battle tomorrow, sparring with whomever Michael
assigned to me. He’d be pissed, of course, but at the moment I didn’t really care.

It took a few minutes for my muscles to flow into the steady pace of the run along the beach. I hadn’t bothered to stretch. It always took me like this: a transition from tense and worried to a pure, physical being, my body working, my mind simply drifting. I passed others—I had no particular need for solitude, and I didn’t want to be shut away from people. I just didn’t want to have to talk to them. I ran to the end of the second spit of land and slowed my pace, letting life slowly drift back in, and I finally stopped, bending over to catch my breath. I’d pushed myself too hard, and I wasn’t sure why. Exactly what had I been running from?