Enoch stopped outside a heavy door and turned to face him. The long dagger in his hand was no surprise. Nor was the fact that it glittered with celestial power.

“You’ve made your final mistake, Azazel,” he said, his eyes shining. “He’s ordered me to finish you. If it were up to me, I would let you see what’s left of the girl, but I am one who follows orders.”

“Of course you are, Metatron.”

The king of the angels, ruler beneath Uriel, looked startled. “You know?”

“That this is Uriel’s idea of heaven? That the charming old man is the archangel himself, playing games of pain and pleasure? Those poor, colorless people who wander these streets must be the few he considered worth saving.”

“You and the girl are the ones without color, you fool. It makes killing easier when the blood isn’t red.”

“I do not care what color your blood is. Just that it spills.”

Metatron’s mouth curved in an ugly smile. “My sentiments as well. But I have the knife and you have nothing.”

Azazel returned the smile with a calm one of his own. “You have fought me in years past, Metatron. You should know I don’t need weapons.”

“Nor do I,” he snarled, dropping the glowing blade and advancing on Azazel with the cold certainty of physical superiority.

It was over quickly. A kick to the groin brought him down, fast and in shock; a hard chop on the back of the head and he went sprawling, unconscious. Luck and surprise had helped him, Azazel thought. Arrogance on Metatron’s part had brought his fall. He wouldn’t make that mistake the next time. And there would be a next time, Azazel knew full well.

He stepped over Metatron’s body and reached for the door. She wasn’t dead, he knew that much. He would know, he would feel it, if she ceased to exist. Uriel was never going to tell them the secrets that she’d unwittingly held. He’d put her through that torture for nothing.

The room was dark, but he could smell her blood, and for a moment he halted. It was unavoidable, instinctive, powerful. He wanted that blood flowing down his throat, coating his tongue. Almost as much as he wanted the source of that blood.

It took him a moment to get his fierce need under control. He switched on the light, and looked at the creature lying on the stretcher.

He knew her by the red hair, even though it was dark with blood. Her face was so battered and swollen she could be anyone. Her torso and legs were a mess, her wrists and ankles bleeding from the shackles. She must have struggled against them. They would have liked that.

He couldn’t help her—she was too far beyond his meager gifts of healing. She was near death, in truth, but when he leaned over her and unfastened her shackles, she opened her eyes through the swollen bruising and looked at him.

Her mouth moved, and he put his ear to it, but the rasp was too raw to understand. He didn’t want to see the hatred in her eyes, so he concentrated on the shackles on her ankles, then undid the other restraints. There was no reason to keep her bound like that—she was too weak to fight. It must have been for their pleasure in her pain.

He slid his arms under her fragile body, and she jerked in silent agony. He had no choice—he had to get her out of there. He lifted her carefully, cradling her against his chest, and his hands were wet with her blood. He kicked open the door, stepping over Metatron’s body, and headed toward the street.

He could sense it, a door to the outside that few used. He could carry her up the stairs, out past Uriel-Beloch and the other angels, but he could not kill them all without putting her down, and that he wouldn’t do.

And he couldn’t kill the archangel. In a battle he could hurt him, but only temporarily. Assuaging his vengeful fury and his crushing guilt wasn’t important. What mattered was getting Rachel out of there. To someplace where they could find help. To Sheol.

The hallways were more like dark tunnels, but his sense of direction was infallible, and he followed the twisting path toward the exit, almost there when a shadow crossed his path. More than one. Truth Breakers.

“You think you can ignore Uriel’s commands,” one of them said in its hollow voice. “You are foolish. Put her down.”

He didn’t tighten his grip on her. He had hoped to avoid them. Beloch must have been waiting. “I’m not accountable to Uriel anymore,” he said evenly. “I refuse to bow to his tyrannies. Get out of my way if you wish to live.”

“You are mistaken,” the Truth Breaker said. “You are the one who is going to die. Set her down, or she will die with you right now.”

The Truth Breakers were gifted bringers of pain and death. But they were neutral, unfeeling. They didn’t have his fury. “Gladly,” he said, setting her down carefully. He had no choice. She must have lost consciousness, a small blessing for her.

Despite his fury, something had held him back from killing Metatron. He felt nothing for the shadowy torturers surrounding him, and it was over far too quickly for his taste. He was fast, brutal, and efficient; their surprise at his strength was their downfall. He refused to think about what he was doing, the rending of flesh and bone, the carnage caused by him alone. Perhaps it would haunt him late at night, perhaps it wouldn’t. Within moments the six of them lay at his feet, whatever strange form of life they’d possessed now gone.

He moved back to Rachel’s body and froze. Her eyes were open, and she’d watched everything, the horrific savagery he was capable of. And then she closed her eyes again, as if even looking at him was seeing an unspeakable monster.

He held her carefully. Her life force wasn’t strong; she’d lost a great deal of blood, and if he didn’t get her help soon she would die. And much too late, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t bear it if she did.

He kicked open the door into the moonless night. The rain had stopped, but the gloom remained. How fitting that this was Uriel’s idea of the perfect afterlife. Heaven, Paradise, Valhalla. The Dark City, with no sunshine, no joy, no light.

He looked down at Rachel. Yes, she was Rachel, not the demon, not the Lilith, no matter what darkness hid inside her. She was Rachel, and he’d betrayed her.

There was only one person who could save her. He would have to take her to the woman he hated, the woman who’d taken Sarah’s place. He would have to take Rachel to Sheol, to Raziel’s wife, the new Source. And pray to the God who had abandoned them that Allie could save her.

He spread his wings wide and surged upward, into the dark, threatening sky that surrounded this cursed place. Up toward the brilliant sun, leaving the Dark City and the archangel Uriel far behind.

SHEOL

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE EARLY MORNING AIR WAS still and silent in their bedroom looking out over the ocean. Allie lifted her head, shoving back her thick brown hair. Over the years her senses had grown more attuned to the rhythms of Sheol, their hidden fortress in the mist, and the Fallen who lived there. She knew their comings and goings, their anguish and joys, their needs. God, she knew their needs. Right now someone needed her quite desperately, someone who wasn’t there yet, and she started to roll over, but Raziel caught her arm and pulled her back on top of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured lazily. “We only just got started.”

Allie laughed, burrowing against his lean, strong, deliciously naked body. “May I point out to you what we did down on the beach in the moonlight just last night? And then what we did when you carried me back to bed?”

“It’s a new day,” he said with a wicked gleam, rolling her underneath him. He was fully aroused, and she let out a little purr of delight.