Rebel (31 page)

“Don’t give me that—seeing Lucifer isn’t something you’d forget.”

Michael was looking grim. “No, it isn’t. Unless something deliberately interferes with the memory. It was in the Darkness. We couldn’t have escaped without him. He’s trapped there, or at least part of him is. He wasn’t physical there either.”

“Shit,” Raziel said. He glanced back at his newborn child with regret and longing. “We’re going to have to go after him. Into the Darkness. We have to bring him home.”

I
SLIPPED OUT
of the room as Michael and Raziel carried on a hushed conversation. They were talking about Lucifer, the first of the Fallen, the long-lost savior of us all. And it was us, all of us. I was one of the Fallen, and I would live forever. Our mortality was another of Uriel’s convincing lies. With blood we would never grow old, sicken, or die. If we shouldered the curse of the Fallen, drank the blood of our mates, we would be as they were.

But without the wings, which was patently unfair, I thought, testing to see if I still had a sense of humor. It was there beneath everything, slightly singed but intact. We would have no need, no craving, for blood, but if we did drink it, it would keep us young, which was probably an excellent arrangement for most of the bonded mates in Sheol.

And they
were
bonded. Cain, who thought he knew everything, was wrong about that one as well. It was independent of whose blood was taken—when one of the Fallen mated, it was an unbreakable bond, strong and true. Unless, of course, it was made in deceit and treachery, in which case all bets were off.

He was leaving. I knew he would. In fact, I’d been glued to Allie’s side for the last three days in hopes that he’d take off before I had to see him again. It had all been too much, the shock of betrayal, followed so closely by the battle. I’d given too much blood on the battlefield, ending with Cain, and I felt weak, dizzy, unable to face anything but the soft and sweet baby Allie let me hold.

But I’d hidden out for too long. He hadn’t gone yet—it was one of the many things I knew. My formerly imperfect visions, painful and rare, had now become a constant companion, an almost comfortable one. I knew where people were, what we were having for dinner, how cold it was going to be. It was as if I’d been living in a house full of shuttered windows. Now all those shutters had been flung open, and I could see everything.

Including Cain, in his room, getting ready to leave.

I even knew where I was going, despite my better judgment. I was going to him, though I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there. I still had an intense longing to smash something over his head, but it hadn’t done any good the first time.

It was a warm afternoon, lovely, as all afternoons in Sheol were lovely. I didn’t bother to knock, pushing open the door to his room and walking in as if I belonged. He was standing by the French doors,
staring out into the garden, and he turned, startled, wary.

“I’m not going to hit you,” I said. I didn’t want to hit him. I still had the faint hope that after all this time, all this betrayal, I wouldn’t care anymore. I looked into his beautiful, deceitful face and knew I would care for an eternity.

“That’s good. I’m not quite recovered from Metatron’s handiwork.” His voice was light, relaxed. Deceptively so. I could feel the tension thrumming through his body as it vibrated through mine. “At least I killed the bastard.”

“I thought he was your confederate.”

He hurt you
. At first I thought he’d spoken the words out loud, shocking me. And then I realized I’d once more heard his thoughts. Or had I just imagined what I wanted to hear?

Cain shrugged. “He wasn’t good at following orders.”
I wanted to make him suffer.

I stared at him, then tried to shake off the unreasonable hope that was beginning to fill me. I could see it, as I could see so many things now, but I was afraid to believe it, even if my other visions had become almost infallible.
Not this one,
I thought. I was never right about me.

But I looked at him and I knew. I was on a precipice, and I had a choice to make. I could let him go. Or I could fight.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He raised an eyebrow, no sign of the inner turmoil I could feel so strongly coming off him in waves. “I’m leaving.”
I don’t want to.

I took a deep breath, and did the bravest thing I had ever done, harder than facing the Nephilim or the Armies of Heaven. “I don’t think so.”

He looked at me for a moment, his silver eyes wary. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘I don’t think so,’ ” I repeated in a determined tone. “Aren’t you tired of running away all the time?”

“I’m not running away,” he protested. And I heard him again, the words clear, the words he couldn’t say.

I love you. Leaving you tears me up inside, but I can’t stay here and keep on hurting you. I love you. Let me go.

I shook my head. “You’re running away,” I said again, “and it’s time to stop.” I moved across the room to him, standing close enough to touch him, afraid to. I straightened my shoulders. “Your place is here.”

He just stared at me, and then that familiar lazy grin lit his face. The one that he used to charm everyone. The one that from now on would be only for me.

“Is that so?” His voice was cool, distant, but I was no longer fooled.

“You were right about some things and wrong about others, you know.”

“Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“You were only partly right about the fire. You didn’t know the wives could go through it as well. You didn’t know that we could be immortal either.”

“You’ll have to understand I was concentrating on saving Sheol. I wasn’t thinking about the future, and women were far down on my agenda.”

Try again, big boy. You can’t fool me anymore.

I knew he heard me by the startled expression on his face. But then he dismissed it.

“Of course you weren’t thinking about the women, you asshole.” My spoken voice was loving. “You were wrong about bonded mates. The blood may have nothing to do with it. You’ve proven you can drink from anyone and survive. But that doesn’t mean the bond between a Fallen and his mate isn’t strong and unbreakable.”

“Doesn’t it?

Damn, he was being stubborn. “No, it doesn’t. And I have one more important piece of information for you. I’m your bonded mate, even if you’re too pigheaded to believe it. I’m yours. No one else’s. I’m going to be immortal, and we may as well not waste centuries until you grow a brain and realize it.”

“Really?” he said, not giving an inch. “Do you have anything else to say?”

All right, so this wasn’t going so well. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I’d botched it, maybe the voice
in my head was wishful thinking. Maybe it would be better if I sat down and burst into tears, but I was trying to maintain a scrap of dignity if he decided to be a blind idiot. “Yes,” I said. “I love you. So man up, or angel up, or whatever, and love me.”

He didn’t move, his eyes sweeping over me with lazy deliberation. “Your visions tell you that?”

“Yes. And my heart.”

“Well,” he said in a measured voice, “looks like your visions finally got it right.” He came to me then, pulling me into his arms. “I love you, Miss Mary. I’m no good for you, but if you’ll have me, I’m yours. Forever.”

“I’ll have you.” My voice was steady, my heart racing.

He kissed me then, all the trickery and all the defenses gone. Cain, the rebel, the trickster, the wanderer, my mate.

He had finally come home.

KRISTINA DOUGLAS
has written nearly one hundred novels as
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Anne Stuart, including the popular Ice series. Kristina is also the author of three other novels in the electrifying Fallen series:
Raziel, Demon,
and
Warrior
. She lives with her husband in the dark woods of northern Vermont.

authors.simonandschuster.com/Kristina-Douglas

MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

SimonandSchuster.com

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY CRAIG WHITE

Also by Kristina Douglas

Raziel

Demon

Warrior

Pocket Books

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.