Rebel (22 page)

“I couldn’t very well bathe holding on to a knife,” I shot back.

“You could have—should have—put it under your feet. The knife is stainless—it won’t rust. Instead you sat here like a plucked chicken already in the stew pot, waiting for me to come in and turn up the heat.”

“Lovely image.”

“Better than a bloodbath.” He turned, leaning against the door, seemingly at ease. “So how come your uncertain powers didn’t warn you that I was
outside your door? Does your self-preservation juju only work in the open air?”

I opened my mouth to snap back at him—then stopped to think about it. I wasn’t afraid of him. The realization astonished me. At least, not afraid he was going to kill me. It was always possible I was the sick fuck, crazy enough to face death at my lover’s hands and not care about it, but I didn’t think so. In fact, I knew he wasn’t going to pull that knife from the wall and plunge it into me. He wasn’t going to put those beautiful hands around my neck and hold me under the water. He might disrupt my life, break my heart, but he wasn’t going to hurt me physically.

He must have seen the slow realization dawn over my face, even in the shadows. He nodded. “That’s better.”

I didn’t bother to deny it. “Then who . . . ?”

“Leave it to me.” He came closer, plucking a towel from the pile by the door. “Time to come out.”

I gave him a scornful look. “Not while you’re here.”

“I can always get in with you,” he said blandly, and I was smart enough not to call his bluff.

“At least turn your back,” I said, holding my hand out for the towel.

I expected more of an argument. Instead he simply reached down into the warm water, caught my arms, and hauled me up out of its protective depths,
wrapping the huge towel around me before I could panic. It was dark, I reminded myself. He couldn’t see anything, even with the skylight overhead.

I yanked myself out of his arms, catching the towel tight around my body. “Go away.”

“After I make sure you’re safely tucked away in bed.”

“I don’t need you to tuck me into bed,” I snapped.

“You sure about that?” he murmured, his low voice sliding deep inside me, warming me, disturbing me. He walked past me and plucked the knife out of the wall, then handed it to me, hilt first. “This isn’t much of a defense, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I can defend myself. I’m a trained warrior.” My voice was defensive.

“So is everyone else in Sheol, and someone here wants to kill you,” he said, and there was no arguing with his logic. “Indulge me, in this at least. I intend to take care of your little problem, but in case it proves more complex than I expect, I wouldn’t want to leave you here defenseless.”

“I’m not—”

“I beg your pardon. Without a weapon.” I couldn’t see his expression in the shadows, which meant he couldn’t see me, a small mercy. He opened the door to the hallway, then turned back to me.

“I don’t need an—” The words were lost as he made an impatient noise and swooped me up into
his arms, striding out of the room and down the hallway. It took him only a matter of moments to reach our corridor, kick my door open, and carry me inside, and a moment later he’d dropped me onto the bed so that I bounced, scrambling for the bath sheet that covered me.

“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

A moment later he was gone.

T
HE BITCH HAD MANAGED TO SAVE
herself. Metatron speared upward, fury vibrating through him as he hurled his body into the darkness, every muscle rigid. How dare she? She was a woman, worthless, just one of the temptresses who had brought the Fallen to their miserable existence, and yet she’d managed to trick him. He’d been convinced she was dead, and if Cain hadn’t shown up at the beach and refused to leave, he would have made sure of it, finished the job if necessary. Instead Cain had stood there questioning him, and in the end he’d had no choice but to retreat, angry and frustrated but reasonably certain she was dead.

She wasn’t.

At least he could take cold comfort in the reasonable assurance that Cain didn’t suspect him. Cain would trust his word.

He already knew that Cain was irrational when it came to the seer, and he wouldn’t agree that she needed to be silenced before she interfered with their plans. Cain thought he could control her. Cain was a fool. Women were irrational, weak, ruled by their emotions. There was a reason there were no female angels—they were unworthy.

Cain himself had begun all this, back in the beginning of time. He’d been the first to take a human woman to his bed, and even the example Uriel had made of him hadn’t stopped the others. When this was done, when the Fallen were brought back under Uriel’s sway, then it would be time to finish Cain, destroy him utterly for the chaos he had instigated.

Metatron embraced the breathless ice of the night sky, celebrating the emptiness that echoed in his soul. There was no room for passion, for weakness, for distraction. His job was to serve Uriel; if he hadn’t failed him, let Azazel and that witch he’d married best him, he’d still be at the archangel’s side. Those two would have to die as well, though Uriel might not give the order. Metatron would see to it before he could be countermanded, assuming Cain didn’t gut Azazel first. One didn’t disobey Uriel lightly, and Metatron needed to earn back his place with him. But anything that happened before that time would be fair game.

He flew higher, darting and soaring like some
maddened phoenix, until the rage left him and all that remained was cold determination. He could almost hate the seer for the fiery emotions she aroused in him. He despised losing control. It was difficult enough trying to guess what Uriel would want him to do in order to return to his good graces and his side. Emotions—hatred, anger, impatience—interfered with that.

He slowed, began the measured drift back toward Sheol. He would try again, and next time he would leave nothing to chance. He would have to wait a few days, just to allay suspicion, but with any luck the seer would suspect Cain. He was the logical culprit, the newcomer who couldn’t keep away from her. If Metatron had managed to drive a wedge between them, that could only work to his advantage.

He dropped down onto the sand lightly. The moon had set, the stars barely visible through the omnipresent mist. That was another annoyance—it was always too bright in Sheol. It shouldn’t be, surrounded as the place was by the fog that kept it hidden from everyone; but compared to the world that Uriel ruled, it was blazingly, blindingly bright. It gave him a headache.

He walked up the slight slope to the main compound. He had three rooms on the third floor, a luxurious combination that he both despised and enjoyed. Soft beds and rich foods were for the weak,
and he was used to a harder, leaner existence. He would welcome his return to it, but in the meantime he allowed himself the indulgence. He considered himself a spy in the midst of the enemy, and spies were often forced to live in less than optimal circumstances. If he had to endure luxury, so be it.

He didn’t notice the figure lounging by the seawater pool until he was almost past it, and Cain’s voice, soft and deadly, came out of the darkness. “Enjoy your flight?”

Metatron froze, then willed his body to relax. He was bigger than Cain; there was no question he could defeat him quite easily. But he still might have need of him. “I like the night air,” he said cautiously. There was no way Cain could know what he’d done. The seer hadn’t seen him, and no one could guess he’d been behind the attack. After all, he’d given his word, and lying was always difficult for the Fallen.

“Do you?” Cain’s voice was deceptively pleasant. “I do as well. Fewer witnesses, for one thing.”

Caution was deeply ingrained in Metatron—he thought slowly and methodically, seldom impulsive. “Did you wish to discuss strategy? You have yet to explain to me how the seer will be of benefit, and time is running out.”

“So you decided to break your oath and murder her? Because I hadn’t given you a good enough reason not to?”

Metatron didn’t flinch beneath the whiplash tone, and he didn’t bother to deny it. “You seem to have a blind spot where the seer is concerned. She’s a danger. Her visions are growing more reliable, and sooner or later she’s going to see something that will ruin all our plans. If you really want to destroy the Fallen, you’re going to have to make some sacrifices. Though why the seer would be a sacrifice eludes me.”

“And I’m required to explain everything to you?” There was no mistaking the silken menace in Cain’s voice, but Metatron didn’t blink.

“If we’re going to succeed in bringing Sheol back under Uriel’s rule and destroy the Fallen, we must work together.”

Cain was silent for a long moment, and Metatron waited. He couldn’t see Cain’s face in the darkness, but he was reasonably certain Cain would make the wise choice. He wanted to destroy the Fallen as much as Metatron did.

“I chose the seer for a reason,” Cain said finally. “Her visions are cloudy, uncertain. If I bond with her, I can manipulate them.”

“You can’t bond with her. She isn’t your mate,” Metatron protested, shocked.

“Things aren’t always as they seem in the world of the Fallen. Trust me when I tell you I will suffer no ill effects when I take her to bed, no ill effects when I take her blood.”

“She won’t agree,” he said flatly.

“Such a lack of confidence in my powers of persuasion. She’ll beg for it.”

Metatron breathed a sigh of relief. Cain was sounding as cold, as ruthless and determined, as he could wish. He’d been wrong to doubt him, wrong to think he was weak. He would be able to bend the seer to his will, and if he couldn’t . . . well, there would be any number of chances to finish what Metatron had started out by the rocks.

“Then what have you been waiting for?”

Cain’s tone was dismissive. “That decision is up to me.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Metatron warned. “Or I may have to go ahead with my original idea.”

“You touch her and I will kill you.”

The words were spoken so gently that for a moment Metatron didn’t recognize the seriousness of the threat. When he did, he laughed derisively. “You’re no match for me. I’m far bigger and stronger than you.”

A moment later he was slammed backward onto the stone paving, Cain on top of him, a knife held tight against his throat, and he froze. “Yes,” Cain said softly, “but I’m faster.”

He could do it, Metatron thought, staring up at him without emotion. Cain could slash his throat and then hold him down so he couldn’t reach the healing
waters. Metatron choked, the action making the edge of the knife dig in, and he felt blood begin to trickle down the side of his neck onto the stones beneath him.

“I should kill you on principle,” Cain continued in a light voice, and now Metatron could see his face, the absolute chilling emptiness in his eyes. “I’ve always worked alone, and I don’t like having surprises get in the way of my plans.”

Metatron held very still, resisting the impulse to point out that they’d been his plans originally. He viewed the possibility of death with equanimity. He’d died once already, and he had complete faith in Uriel. Uriel would reward him for his efforts, even if Metatron didn’t succeed.

Cain sat back, removing the knife from Metatron’s throat. “We can decide to work together for our common goal, or we can dissolve our partnership. I need to know I can trust you not to go behind my back and fuck up my plans.”

The more Metatron lied, the better he got at it. “All right,” he said. “But I need something from you.”

The expression on Cain’s face didn’t suggest he was in the mood to offer any concession. “What?”

“That you stop screwing around and finish with the seer,” he said impatiently, using words he’d never used before. “Fuck her senseless, drain her blood, do whatever you need, but I don’t want to worry about her tripping us up. She sees too much, and she
knows you’re not to be trusted. She’s never trusted me. If you don’t get her under your control, and fast, she’ll destroy everything.”

Cain rose with one easy move, and the knife disappeared beneath his clothes once more. Metatron would have to remember he carried one. Hand to hand they were no match, but Cain had always been very, very good with a knife.

“I was planning to. If you hadn’t been so ham-handed, it would already be done. I’d gotten her halfway toward trusting me, and now she thinks I might have been the one to try to kill her. And Martha is not the kind of woman who gets aroused by danger.”

Metatron shuddered. The thought of the Fallen and their mates . . . commingling . . . filled him with disgust, but this time he recognized the necessity. If Cain could fill the seer’s mind with the visions he wanted, it would lull the Fallen into a sense of complacency, and they would never know what hit them.

Cain held out a hand to him, but Metatron ignored it, jumping to his feet swiftly. “We can’t afford to make any more mistakes. Time is running out, and we need the Fallen to be irreparably broken before Uriel leads the Armies of Heaven here, or there’s no telling what might happen.”

Cain glanced up at the pitch-black sky. “I plan to take care of it. After all, I’ve been without blood or pussy for weeks now.”

“Don’t!” Metatron’s protest was instinctive, his disgust overwhelming.

“Afraid of a little word, Metatron? You don’t like pussy? Well, I know you don’t like pussy, but do you have a problem with the word? I can come up with all sorts of other terms, like c—”

“You’re foul.”

Cain’s slow grin was infuriating. “I’m healthy. And fortunately, the smart choice, Martha, happens to coincide with my personal preference. Are you going to want a blow-by-blow description, or simply word that the deed is done?
Blow-by-blow
being the operative term.”

Metatron controlled his reaction by sheer force. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“And exactly what are you going to do for me, Metatron, old friend?” Cain inquired in a silken voice.

It was easy enough to lie. He was getting quite good at it. “I won’t make any more moves against the seer. I’ll leave that to you.”