Black Fallen (11 page)

“I can’t wait,” I mutter on a gasp. “Now, Eligius.”

Eli lets me slide from my perch on his hips and pins me against the door. Eyes darkened
by raging lust hold my gaze as he tugs the clasps of my thin leather straps and blade
sheath, letting both drop to the floor. Grasping my snug shirt by the hem, the material
slides over my skin as he pulls it off and tosses it onto the floor. Likewise, I pull
his shirt over his head, drop it, and slip my palms over the chiseled muscles of his
chest, lower, to his stomach, and around to the smooth contours of his hard, broad
back. He buries his mouth against my neck, and I don’t even tense up anymore.

Eli has that much control.

Turn-on.

With his fingertips, Eli slides the straps of my bra off my shoulders and unclasps
it, and my heavy breasts are free of the silky material. My bra finds its way on the
growing pile of clothes on the floor. The cool air brushes my skin, and one of Eli’s
hands finds my lower back and pulls me closer. He drops his head, kisses my collarbone,
and moves lower, his lips dragging over the swell of my breast. Grabbing his hair,
I pull his mouth to exactly where I want it. In an erotic kiss, he suckles me, makes
my skin flame, and covers the other breast with his hand. I press my groin to his,
closer, hot, aching. Shivers of pleasure rack my body each time his tongue and lips
rake over the sensitive peak, causing the throbbing pulse between my thighs to pitch.
I push my hands through his silky hair and hold on.

His mouth leaves my breast, the chilly air of the ancient chamber cooling my wet skin,
and he lowers, kissing with tongue and teeth down my ribs. Goes down on one knee,
drags his mouth over my navel, my hip. With adept fingers, he pulls off my boots,
socks, unbuttons my dark jeans, pulls them down and off. All shoved away. Wasting
no time, he hooks my panties, pushes them down, and pulls them off. Gone. My heart
leaps. My breath stills in my lungs.

Those same adept fingers rise to my ribs, one hand on either side, and hold me firmly
against the door. He teases first the inside of one thigh, then the other, fire pooling
in all my sensitive places. I moan, about to lose my mind, and push his head down.

The moment Eli’s tongue slides inside of me I explode, jerking against the cool wood
of the door. Eli’s fingers dig into the spaces between my rib bones. A sob escapes
me. Can’t help it. Can barely breathe.

Then he rises and carries me to the bed. The room is bathed in a milky glow, and shadows
reach, grasp, and miss. Eli sets me down and moves behind me, and his breath rakes
against the bare skin of my neck. “I want you forever,” he says. “I always want this.”
He nips my shoulder softly, causing me to shiver. “You.”

Eli’s boots, jeans, and boxer briefs are off and kicked away into a dark pile. When
he finds me again, he presses the hard, carved stone of his chest against my back
and I arch against it, and for a moment, his arms go around me, crossing over my stomach
and pulling me close. There is no steady, fast thump of a heart hammering against
me, but I feel his body quiver. He whispers
I love you
in French. I feel every ounce of strong, possessive emotion within him. All for me.

Eli turns me, moves over me, his weight resting on his forearm. With dark eyes filled
with love, he studies me wordlessly. Then his mouth covers mine. His kiss is erotic,
deep, slow. I wrap my legs around his waist, drag my heels down his calves.

Eli groans, and in one move he enters me. He sucks in a breath, stills, and murmurs
more French words. They’re muffled and I don’t understand them.

His hard sex fills every inch of me, claiming its place deep within, and I hold on
for dear life. He begins to rock, his hard thighs trapping me and his body crowding
me.

A slow arc of pleasure builds and fires, sending shards of blinding light scattering
behind the lids of my eyes. A cry rips from my throat as the orgasm racks me, and
at the same time Eli’s own climax tears from him, over and over as he takes me possessively,
claiming me in the most ancient of ways. Uncontrolled. Out of control.

Perfect.

As we both crash back down to earth, Eli remains inside of me, slowly moving, his
breath coming in harsh puffs against my neck as his mouth kisses me. His arms are
wrapped tightly around me, holding me tightly against him, and I feel more emotion,
more love, in that full-body embrace than even the words themselves.

It’s that powerful. It’s that beautiful.

And I never, ever want it to end.

P
art Six

DEMENTED ANGELS

I am never so frightened as when every thing is still.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Parasite

If
anything ever happens to Riley, I don’t think I’ll survive it. My love for her has
quadrupled since I first realized I loved her. She fits me perfectly, and I want her
for as long as we have together. The thought that something as powerful as a Black
Fallen can manipulate her in her sleep petrifies me. She thinks she can handle herself
in all situations, and for the most part, she can. But with a Fallen? I’m not so sure.
They’ve already homed in on her. It’ll be up to me to keep her safe.

—Eli Dupré

T
he thought that I’ve sent an Earthbound angel to some godforsaken plane of torture
and hideousness plagues me. I can’t stop thinking about it. I know I will have to
rectify it. If it kills me, I’ll rectify it. The look in Ian’s eyes, the eyes of the
Earthbound, haunts me. It’s compelling. Profound. I see it in my head, constantly.

It pisses me off.

I’m ready to find the Fallen and kick their asses.

The team practices for another day. Tristan and Gawan’s lessons are invaluable. They
are truly master swordsmen, and I can only imagine what they would’ve been like in
their prime. Well, they are in their prime; neither of them look a bit over their
midthirties. But I mean in their
original
prime.

They’re tough as shit, too, and they cut no slack where their students are concerned.
Vampires don’t sweat, but immortals do and so do the lupines. And so does a human
with tendencies. They worked my ass to the bone, both of them. After we went through
hours of stances, we were finally given the blades. Not easy. And not nearly as easy
as the little blades I’m used to working with. Hell, you aim and throw. Or you stab.
With a sword you have to watch your back. And your own appendages.

After, we paired up. At first our mentors took turns with each of us. Tristan is truly
a unique guy to engage in swordplay. You wouldn’t think someone that big could move
so elegantly. He makes it look effortless.

It’s a sham. It’s hard as Hell.

But we stuck it out, and although we get the fast version of Swordplay for Dummies,
we all get the gist of it. In the Crescent’s courtyard, Jake has set up several dummies
for head lopping. Again, not as easy as it looks in the movies. One big swing and
off goes the head. Nuh-uh. You’d better hit that neck at just the precise mark, and
you’d better have all your damn weight behind your swing. Or else it’ll hang. And
squirt stuff.

Not pretty.

And not effective. Apparently, if you don’t completely sever the head, the Fallen
and the Jodís can regenerate. I almost want to do it just to watch. Sick, I know.
But if anything, I’m truthful.

Sydney’s the only one missing in our training. She’s already mastered the sword, thanks
to a year with Gabriel, and she’s been assigned the task of going through the sacred
tomes of the Celtae, courtesy of Darius. He’s another one that amazes me. It’s weird
to have seen him, as well as Jake, Tristan, and Gawan, in a time other than this one.
It’s a surreal occurrence, yet . . . it really happened. They lived in another time,
one wilder, untamed—a place where your sword was your protection.

Or, in Tristan’s case, not.

I found out a few other things about him. Tristan’s wife? Forensic archaeologist.
She, after excavating, digging, researching, and falling in love with a spirit, reversed
the curse and brought not only Tristan back to life, but all of his knights. One,
the youngest, is picking up Tristan and Gawan in a little while, and so I’ll get to
meet yet another once-ghost. Even saying it inside my head sounds weird. But it happened.
Almost as weird as a tattoo artist from Savannah, Georgia, being engaged to an aged
vampire.

And Gawan. An Earthbound angel for centuries, he was on the brink of retirement. Was
ready to become a full-fledged mortal, live out his life, and die. And just when he
was about to retire,
whack
! He found a soaking-wet girl who claimed to be named Ellie on the road near his castle.
She turned out to be a girl In Betwixt. Dead, but not. Ghostly, but not always. In
and out. Yeah, they fell in love. Of course they did. The story would suck if they
didn’t. She also happened to be his intended. His soul mate.

I get that. Mine’s a bloodsucker.

Gawan had to find Ellie’s half-dead real self before she actually expired. He did.
Now they’re married, madly in love, and have a flock of children.

Blows my mind to hear it. And if all that can happen? Anything can happen. Good or
evil. And that makes me know I’d best be on my toes, in tip-top shape. Ready for any
damn thing.

We spend the latter part of the afternoon on the streets of Edinburgh. Wet Edinburgh.
Wet, cold, mist-shrouded Edinburgh. Still a cool old city. But from someone who is
used to the southeastern coast of the United States, it takes a little getting used
to.

We move through the streets, the closes and wynds, Grassmarket and Cowgate. Gabriel
takes us through the vaults, or the catacombs, of underground Edinburgh. He says we’ll
need to know the city inside and out once the Fallen have regenerated. The vaults
are eerily cold and dark, and throughout most of them only candles, occasionally lit
by walking tour staff members, light the passageways.

All at once, I sense it. The others do, too. Another vampire. No sooner does the thought
enter my head than a scream pierces the cold corridors of the vaults. In a flash,
Victorian races ahead of me and disappears through an archway. He’s already morphed.
When next I look, so have all the other vampires in my company. We all follow Victorian’s
lead, through the shadowy passages of the vaults, and the screams grow more intense.
I can tell the vampire is young, a girl. And in horrific pain. Like lightning, we
fly through the tunnels, and at once we all come to a halt. We’re now in a large chamber.
Victorian has a human by the throat, holding him high. Four other humans fill the
chamber. And chained to a wall, a girl. Rather, a female vampire. Older than I figured.
Maybe twenty. Her merlot eyes are wide, and she stares at Victorian.

“Arcos, don’t,” Jake instructs Victorian.

“She doesn’t deserve this!” Victorian yells. His eyes are latched onto the human in
his grasp.

“Put him down or I’ll run you through,” another human says. She holds a silver dirk,
strapped to the end of a long wooden stick. It touches Victorian’s back.

Just that fast, I’m there, the silver blade knocked from the woman’s hand. I shove
her across the chamber and she hits the wall. “I don’t think so,” I say. “What’d she
do?”

“What you murderers all do,” another woman, huddled against the wall, says.

I shake my head. “What did she do?” I repeat.

“It’s what she will do!” the remaining human, a middle-aged man, says. He steps closer,
glancing at the one Victorian has suspended in the air.

“That’s not good enough,” Jake says. He looks at them all. “Victorian, put him down.”

Vic lets the man fall to the floor, where he scrambles up and huddles with the others.

“Now leave,” Jake says. And without another word, they all do exactly as he says.

Victorian hurries to the female vampire. “Riley?” he calls.

I go to him, and he nods to the chains. They’re made of pure silver. No wonder Vic
hadn’t broken them himself yet. Grasping first one, then the other, I yank them out
of the wall. Then, I pry them off of the girl. I study her. Her eyes are pale now.
And she looks absolutely terrified. “She’s not a vampire.”

“Not yet,” Victorian corrects. He looks at her. “What is your name?”

The girl’s gaze flashes to all of us before returning Vic’s question. Her brows furrow,
as if she’s thinking really hard. “Abbey,” she answers in a heavy brogue. “I think.”

“Do you have family?” Gabriel asks.

Abbey shakes her head. “No.”

Gabriel nods. “You’ll be safe now,” he assures her. “Arcos, bring her along.”

I watch in fascination as Vic gingerly helps the somewhat-vamp girl out of the chamber.
Gabriel turns to Jake. “I know a place to take her. Arcos can accompany us.”

Jake nods. “Aye.“

Then Gabriel and Vic leave with Abbey. We all follow behind, but instead of leaving
out of the vaults, Gabriel leads them down a long passageway in the opposite direction.
I stare until the darkness swallows them up.

I glance at Eli. “That was weird.”

“Not as weird as you think,” Jake answers. “Edinburgh has more than one human group
of ghost hunters and monster chasers. They were spot on with this one, though. She’s
no’ far from changing into full-potency vampire. He shakes his head. “We’ll have to
find out who her maker is.”

“Will they be able to save her?” I ask.

Jake’s green gaze meets mine. “Mayhap.”

Finally, a way out of the catacombs. We enter through an unobtrusive doorway and exit
through a pub. Out on the street, the strained sounds of a bagpipe echo off the stone.

I think I have the general makeup of the city engrained in me. No, I don’t know each
close and wynd, but I see how they work. Just like Savannah runs in squares, Edinburgh
runs on the fish spine. I get it.

It rains all day. The oiled canvas coat I wear keeps me dry, for the most part. As
the daylight fades, we find ourselves on Princes Street, and the hustle and bustle
of tourism and nightlife are just kicking up. The imposing Gothic spires of the Scott
Monument draw my attention, and I think before I leave Edinburgh I’d like to do a
little crazy free running. If my brother, Seth, could see this place, he’d be all
over it.

By the time light fades into shadows, we’re back at the Crescent. Gabriel and Victorian
have returned and now join us. We all mill in the courtyard. Tristan begins to argue
about leaving.

I knew he would.

“My wife would encourage me to stay,” Tristan argues. “I cannot in good conscience
leave you all here, knowing what you face. What the people, mortals of Edinburgh,
face.”

“Nor can I,” adds Gawan.

“You can use the extra blades,” Tristan adds.

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If we get into a desperate situation, we’ll call you,” Gabriel says, then looks at
me. “You wouldna argue if you knew the full potential of that one.” He inclines his
head toward me.

“I know she has multiple senses, mind powers that I do not have,” Tristan says. He
looks at me. “No disrespect, Ms. Poe, but you simply lack the strength of a man. You
are, after all, a female.” He glances toward Ginger. “Unlike Ms. Slater, who is lupine—”

Tristan jerks around, because he’s now talking to thin air. In the split second it
takes him to look away, I have made two leaps. One toward that hideous yet weirdly
attractive angel fountain; two, the gargoyle on the far side of the Crescent. I’m
now on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down. I’m watching that big, bulky knight
look everywhere but up. Bending over, I pick up a loose stone, search for a bigger
one, and find it, then throw them both at him. One bounces off his head, the other—the
larger—off his ass.

Tristan curses, then spins around. He looks up, and I wave.

“Damn me,” he says, low and under his breath. He turns back and faces Jake and Gabriel.
“Aye, so she can jump and apparently climb. But— damn!”

Just that fast I leap down and onto Tristan’s back. I flip him over, we fall to the
gravel, and I land on top of him. He lets out a deep grunt. I pin his massive arms
above his head, his tree-trunk legs trapped beneath mine, and I allow him to struggle
for a few seconds. I almost can’t stand it. I want to burst out laughing.

For a full minute, I let him struggle.

Only when he becomes winded do I grin. “Is that your sword, Dreadmoor, or are you
just happy to see me?” I ask.

“Get off me, woman!” Tristan bellows, but his lips twitch.

Before I jump up, I take one more look. I can’t help it. Tristan de Barre is just
too damn fascinating not to. With a smile, I take his hand in mine. And hold it.

A very small number of people attended the celebration. Live people, that is. Jameson;
his son, Thomas, who looked just like Jameson; Miss Kate; her daughter; and Heath,
the priest, to name a few. Tristan and his knights, of course. Even Constable Hurley
showed up. Dreadmoor had quite a haunted reputation, but there were a few who put
their fears aside and dared to come forth.

The remainder of the guests were restless spirits, ghosts from all corners of England,
Scotland, and France. They had poured in through the front gates in droves, just to
see the arrogant Dragonhawk and his lady wed. The news had apparently traveled fast,
because there were knights and warriors of all shapes and ages littering the bailey,
the lists, the great hall and chapel—ghosts Andi had not once laid eyes on.

By the time the sun began its descent and the sky turned various shades of purple,
gray, and orange, Tristan had threatened to toss her over his massive shoulders and
haul her to the kirk. She wouldn’t have minded, really. Not one little bit.

As Jameson led her to the staircase, her heart began to pound. That is, until her
eyes landed on Tristan. Dragonhawk.

Then her poor heart nearly stopped.

The groom-to-be stood at the foot of the stairs, speaking with his captain. Kail must
have announced her, because Tristan’s head turned. He stared, a feral glint lighting
his eyes, a muscle tightening in his cheek.

Jameson led her down the stairs, and it was a damn good thing, too. She would have
surely tripped had he not been holding her steady.

Jameson approached Tristan, gently placed her hand on his arm, then stepped aside
and gave Andi a low bow.

The lord of Dreadmoor all but robbed her of breath. He was so big. His very presence
demanded respect and authority and power, and reeked of self-confidence. It lingered
in each and every knight’s eye, whether live or ghostly.