Warrior (Fallen) Read online

  A born warrior, archangel Michael is dedicated to the Fallen’s survival. But only one woman understands the seductive hunger that he cannot forsake.

  THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERY ANGEL’S LIFE . . .

  Every little girl imagines, now and then, that she’s a princess held captive in a tower. But Victoria Bellona is almost twenty-five. And that whole fairy-tale scenario? That’s her real life. The drop-dead gorgeous man who rescues her is no Prince Charming. He’s the gruff archangel Michael, and he insists that Tory is the Fallen’s only hope for ending Uriel’s vicious rule. She insists he’s crazy.

  . . . TO SHOW HIS BRETHREN WHAT HE’S MADE OF.

  According to the prophecy, Michael must marry this frustrating, fascinating creature, bed her, and drink her blood. But their fate is a double-edged sword. If they give in to their urgently growing desires, Tory will die in battle. If they refuse, she will die anyway, and with her, all of mankind. Michael is determined to find another solution when a traitorous kidnapper forces him into a deadly confrontation. Even if he can save Tory from Uriel’s ruthless clutches, will they ever really be together? Or is her fatal destiny—and the world’s—written in stone?

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  THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS

  KRISTINA

  DOUGLAS

  THE FALLEN

  The whole series sizzles!

  Available from Pocket Books

  Praise for Kristina Douglas’s debut series

  THE FALLEN

  RAZIEL

  “A sexy and smart romp. . . . Packed with verbal sparring and sly shout-outs to Gnosticism . . . entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Douglas stakes out her own fresh style of storytelling. . . . This story is edgy and darkly riveting as it follows two individuals struggling against destiny and insidious treachery. Terrific!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  DEMON

  “Edgy and engrossing series. . . . Spellbinding reading!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The exciting second Fallen Angels urban fantasy is character driven though loaded with nonstop action.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Sardonic humor and characters who make no apologies for themselves.”

  —Heroes and Heartbreakers

  ALSO BY KRISTINA DOUGLAS

  Raziel

  Demon

  Available from Pocket Books

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  Pocket Books

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  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.

  Copyright © 2012 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition May 2012

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  Designed by Jacquelynne Hudson

  ISBN 978-1-4516-5591-9

  ISBN 978-1-4516-5594-0 (ebook)

  For Casey Casavant, a true Warrior, who gave two of the greatest gifts anyone could give.

  He gave me my adopted daughter, and he gave his life for his country.

  Rest in peace.

  Contents

  Beginning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  ‘Rebel’ Excerpt

  ‘Raziel’ Excerpt

  WARRIOR

  BEGINNING

  MARTHA, WIDOW OF THOMAS, moved through the predawn halls of the compound, hope, anxiety, and grief washing through her. She felt old at the age of thirty, old before her time. There was no role for a widow in the angel-centered order of Sheol, but she made herself as useful as she could. Were it not for her dubious “gift,” she would have nothing to do, and that way madness lay. Not that she even had that choice. In Sheol there was no illness, mental or otherwise. Cursed with a longer-than-average life span, she would simply die of boredom. Eventually.

  Martha had greeted her first vision, just three short years ago, with joy, even though it warned of trouble. Each succeeding vision had warned of more and more danger, though there had been the occasional happiness, a new mate joining them in Sheol, or a difficult situation they could avoid.

  This morning was the same, good news and bad. And Allie would be waiting for her.

  There were no children in Sheol. The women were barren, and they had all accepted it. But Allie, the Source, the wife of their leader, was secretly mourning that loss. Grieving it, hoping that, after all the millennia the Fallen had been relegated to earth, some miracle might happen. Rachel’s arrival had started those vain hopes. Rachel, who was, in fact, the demon-goddess Lilith, providing comfort and hope for infertile women throughout history.

  But Martha was bringing no good news to Allie’s bedside. She had searched, done her best to force a vision, which never seemed to work, and she had seen nothing but new disaster on the horizon.

  She climbed the many flights of stairs swiftly. Allie would be alone, awaiting her. Waiting for hope that wasn’t coming.

  But Allie wasn’t alone. The door to their aerie was ajar, and Martha knocked before pushing inside. To her surprise, Raziel himself was sitting on one of the colorful sofas in the living room, a cup of coffee in his hand, a cool expression on his angelically beautiful face.

  She had never felt entirely comfortable around Raziel. He had always been too stiff, too cold, though she supposed that leading the fallen angels didn’t call for someone warm and fuzzy. They were an obstreperous bunch; there was a reason they had fallen. They had questioned, they had rebelled, they had done everything they were proscribed from doing, and done it flagrantly. In truth, her beloved Thomas had been the calmest of the bunch.


  “Martha.” Raziel’s rich voice greeted her evenly.

  “Alpha,” she said respectfully, bowing her head, trying to hide her surprise. “I thought you would be gone by now.” Raziel was usually up before dawn and flying over the compound to make sure all was well. Seeing the shadow of his iridescent blue wings overhead always made her feel oddly comforted. She’d feel a lot better if he were there now.

  A wry smile flitted across his face. “I’m sure you did. However, I decided to keep my wife company a little longer.”

  Allie emerged from the bedroom, wrapped in a tie-dyed lounger that almost brightened her wan face. She put on a cheery smile, enough to fool most people. “Good morning, Martha. I’m so glad you could take the time to help me . . . learn to knit. I’ve been longing to.”

  Martha tried to keep the dismay from her face. There were half a dozen women who were master knitters in Sheol, and two of the Fallen themselves were no slouches. Logically, Allie would have turned to one of them.

  Raziel’s eyes were flitting between the two of them. “Yes, I’d be very interested in these lessons.”

  The Alpha adored his wife. He was, however, not above taunting her, and Martha decided to change the subject. “We’ll show you the results,” she said repressively, wondering at her temerity. “It’s better not to have someone watching.”

  Raziel said nothing as Allie got coffee for herself and Martha. By the time his wife had taken a seat on the opposite sofa, she was entirely composed. “Don’t you want to begin your morning duties?” Allie asked.

  “After you tell me the truth.” His voice was pleasant but inexorable. “Why is Martha here?”

  Allie’s composure crumpled. “It’s my business.”

  Raziel’s cold features softened. “My love, why are you shielding your thoughts? What is troubling you, and how is Martha supposed to help? And don’t try to convince me that Martha can knit. She is a most estimable member of our society, but if she has any skills in that area I would be much surprised.”

  Oh, drat, Martha thought. It was never wise to try to outwit the Alpha. Raziel was far too observant. Husbands and wives shared thoughts easily, but if Allie was shielding her distress, Raziel would know it. And he was the kind of man who didn’t let go of a mystery until he’d solved it to his satisfaction.

  And how the hell did he know she couldn’t knit? she thought belatedly. The first thing she was going to do when she left here was find someone to teach her.

  “In truth,” Martha prevaricated, “I must speak with you, Lord Raziel. I have had another vision.”

  Raziel was suddenly alert, all hard focus, and Martha could see the hope light in Allie’s eyes. It broke her heart.

  She gave Allie a quick, short shake of her head, one she could only hope Raziel wouldn’t notice.

  “It concerns the Archangel Michael,” she said hurriedly, before Raziel could call her on it. “He has a mate.”

  Raziel looked dubious. “Michael has had only one mate in the two hundred years he’s been here, and she was killed in a raid by the Nephilim just two days after they were married.”

  His casual words brought a wave of pain, surprisingly fresh, at the memory of Thomas, ripped into pieces and half-devoured by the foulness known as the Nephilim. She pushed it away.

  “Nevertheless, there is a woman waiting for him, and if we are to prevail against the Armies of Heaven, she must join us. There’s no choice.”

  She was just glad she wasn’t going to be the one to break this news to Michael. Raziel was scary enough, but he was a pussycat compared to the warrior angel who wielded the flaming sword of justice.

  “And who is it? I hope your vision was specific enough to tell you how to find her.” Raziel’s voice was caustic. Her visions had been less than clear in the past, and this one wasn’t a whole lot better.

  “My lord, I can’t control my visions, I can only report them,” she said. She didn’t like being bullied.

  Raziel took the veiled reprimand well, reminding her that he wasn’t, in fact, a bully. He was a hard man, but a fair one. “I understand, Martha. Do you know who and where she is?”

  “I do. She is the Roman goddess of war.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Fitting. Where?”

  This was a little trickier. “I’m working on that. I know her name is Victoria Bellona, and I believe she’s in seclusion somewhere in Italy.”

  Raziel nodded, rising. “I’ll go talk to Michael. He won’t like the news.”

  “No,” agreed Allie, sipping at her coffee, “I imagine he won’t.”

  “And later, perhaps, you’ll tell me your reason for meeting with my wife,” he added in a silken tone.

  Martha felt a flush rise to her face. She couldn’t lie directly—he would know.

  “Leave her alone, Raziel,” Allie said. “It’s nothing important, I promise you.”

  He turned to look at his wife for a long, contemplative moment. And then he nodded. “Later,” he said to her. “Martha, you will accompany me to speak to the archangel. I imagine he will have some questions.”

  She froze. The Alpha wasn’t giving her any choice. “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly enough. She cast one last glance at the Source, trying to give her the bad news as subtly as possible.

  Allie nodded, her face impassive. She was a strong woman, and she’d been dealing with this a long time. Perhaps the next vision would bring hope.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  MY MOTHER WAS GOING TO kill me.

  I looked out the window into the desolate countryside and I wanted to laugh at myself. How many teenagers had said that through the millennia? It should have been comical in a woman nearly twenty-five.

  Except that Contessa Carlotta di Montespan seemed to have every intention of ending the life she’d reluctantly given birth to, presumably with the help of Pedersen, the teacher, the trainer, the guard who had haunted nearly my entire existence. They were going to murder me before my twenty-fifth birthday, and there was no one I could turn to. There never had been.

  I pushed away from the window, looking around the lavish bedroom. The large bed was covered with the finest of Egyptian cotton; the rugs were ancient and beautiful, with soft, muted colors; the fresh roses were pale yellow, my favorite color. The walls were painted a soft cream, and the mullioned windows looked out over the mountainous countryside of what apparently was Italy. But the view was spoiled by the iron bars across the windows, and the door to my room was solid, ancient oak—and locked. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage, as I had been for almost my entire life, and now I’d been given a death sentence.

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. My cold, exquisitely beautiful mother was a woman totally devoid of maternal feeling, or any feelings at all, as far as I could tell. Even Pedersen, who was most likely her bed partner as well as her partner in crime, merited not a sign of warmth.

  Pedersen had appeared, an enigma like everything else in my life, when I was about seven. He was a giant, six foot six at least, with heavy muscles, pale blue eyes, and the white-blond hair of his Scandinavian ancestors. I had no idea where he’d come from, and when I asked he wouldn’t tell me. But then, Pedersen wasn’t a man for talk except when he was instructing me. And those instructions had been endless.

  My mother hadn’t approved of schools. Even the most selective private academies held bad elements, she’d said, and I could learn everything I needed from Pedersen. She claimed he had a formidable intellect, and he was an expert in the physical training I would require.

  The rest of my education came from the movies.

  I never bothered to ask why the physical training was necessary. The contessa was even less inclined to answer questions than her henchman, and the time I spent in her presence was growing shorter.

  So I learned, and I trained. We started with gymnastics, and I loved it, spinning on the bars, flying through the air to land smoothly on the mats. I was the Karate Kid, I was Bruce Lee. I felt . . . free.

 
; Pedersen had moved on quickly. Tae kwon do, karate, and Shaolin kung fu came next, followed by more arcane forms of martial art. I had been an apt pupil, more for the love of movement than a need for approval. I was fast and strong, healing from Pedersen’s brutal methods of teaching with preternatural speed, and I already knew there was no approval to be found.

  Amazingly, they let me go when I was fourteen. I was small for my age, well before my ridiculous growth spurt, and my intense training had kept my period at bay, convincing me I’d never be a woman. The tiny private school in the Alps had been run by nuns, the half dozen students silent and cowed, but it had been human interaction, and I bloomed. For those three years I had no rigorous training, only the exercises I chose to do, and I’d made friends among the other exiles. And there’d been Johann.

  The nuns would let me out to train in the meadows surrounding the remote convent, having discovered that my kicks and spins caused too much damage in confined quarters. I would move and swirl and dance in the sunlight, a lethal Maria von Trapp, singing “The Sound of Music” slightly off-key at the top of my lungs where no one could hear me. I would escape in the cold winter weather, in the soft spring air, and it was there that I met Johann.

  But I didn’t want to think about him right now. The memory still ripped at my heart seven years later; pain and betrayal still haunted me. When they’d dragged me back to my tower, I put all my rage into the endless training, determined on revenge—and even Pedersen hadn’t realized when I finally became stronger than he was.

  I kept that knowledge safe in my heart. I could best him in a fight. I almost had, during our sparring, but at the last minute I’d instinctively pulled back, not wanting him to see my strength. There were few enough weapons that could defeat the people who’d raised me, and Pedersen could be a dangerous man. I intended to guard any advantage I had.